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"Eri^rai'fd  hvJ'-Sa'w 


SMAIKSFEmiEc 


C  0  N  T  E  N  T  S. 


PACE 

ROMEO     AND     JIJMKT .  1 

HAMLET 85 

CYMBELINE      . 177 

OTHELLO 253 

T  I  M  O  N     O  F    A  1'  II E  N  S 329 

KING    LEAR        3b9 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  VOL.  L 


TRAGEDIES. 


TITLE-PAGE  TO  VOLUME. 


Sliakspcre  spaicd  between  the  Dramatic  Muse  and  the  Genius  of  Painting.     From  an  Alio  Kelievo  by  Banlis  in  the  front  of 
the  liiitish  Institution,  formerly  the  Shaksj  ere  Gallery,  Pall  Mall. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


Page 

1.  Title  page — The   Masquerade   Scene:    an    original 

design  by  W.  Harvet.  . , ' 

IN'lKODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

2.  Tragic  Mask S 

3.  Costume  of  Senators  anil  Ladies,  from  a  drawing  by 

Giotto 10 

4.  Costume  of  a   young  Venetian    Nobleman,    from 

Vecellio 1 1 

DRAMATIS  PERSON.l!. 

5.  Funeral  Garland,  composed  from  specimens  of  the 

principal  funei-eal  flowers  of  Shakspere — "  Vio- 
lets blue,"  "  Marigold,"  "  Azure  hare-bell," 
"  Kosemary,"  "  Eglantine,"  &c 12 


6.  Verona 13 

7.  Maskers  23 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

s.  Bills  and  Partizans,  from  specimens 25 

9 .  Grove  of  Sycamore 25 

10.  Lady  masked,  from  Vecellio 26 

U.  Fete   Champetre;    designed   from  an   illumination 

in  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose,"  Harl.  MS.  4425...  27 

12.  Plantain  Leaf,   from  specimens,    and  a  group  in 

Gerarde's  Herbal 27 

13.  Tlie  ' '  Measure,"  from  a  drawing  by  R.  W.  Buss. . ,  28 

14.  "  Court  Cupboard"  and  Plate,  selected  from  speci- 

mens in  private  collections,  and  from  old  prints.  30 


l.'j.  Capulet's  Garden 31 

16.  Nurse  and  Peter 40 


Page 
ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  II. 

17.  Cupid,  from  an  engraving  after  Francesco  Albano. .     41 

18.  Falconry 42 

19.  "  Nimble-pinioned  Doves,"  from  Raffaelle 44 

ACT  III. 

20.  Juliet  and  Nurse 45 

21 .  Juliet  and  Romeo  (Loggia) 55 

ILLUSTRATIONS   OP  ACT  III. 

22.  Old  Stage  and  Balcony,  from  the  title-page  to  Dr. 

W.  Alabaster's  Tragedy  of  Roxana,  1632 56 


23.  Friar  Laurence's  Cell ...,..,.,     58 

24.  Verona,  from  an  original  sketch — the  Funeral  Pro- 

cession of  Juliet,  from  an  old  Italian  engraving 
of  a  "  Funeral  Pomp."...,., 64 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 

25.  Costume  of  Servants,  from  Vecellio 66 

26.  Musicians,  from  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose."    (Harl. 

MS.  4425) 66 

ACT  V. 

27.  Mantua 67 

28.  Tomb  of  the  Capulets 73 

ILLUSTRATION   OF  ACT  V. 

29.  Tomb  of  the  Scaligeri,  Verona,  from  an  original 

sketch 75 

SUPPLEMENTARV   NOTICE. 

30.  Juliet's  Tomb,  from  an  original  drawing  by  J.  P. 

Brocbedon,  Esq 76 

31.  Cupid  and  Psyche,  from  an  antique  gem K4 

V 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  VOL.  L— TRAGEDIES. 
HAMLET. 

Fase 

Title-page.     From  a  di'sign  by  W.  Harvey 85 


INTROnUCl'OHY   NOTICK. 

Dauish  Lutes **7 

Canute  and  his  Wife 98 

*  Smote  the  sledded  PolacUs.'     W.  IIahvey 99 


OHAMATIS    PERSON.*:. 

Holder:  Ophelia's  Flowers 100 

ACT    I, 

Platform  at  Elsiuore.     G.  F.  Sargent 101 

Danish  Standard  and  Arms 113 

ILLUSTRATION   OF   ACT  I. 

•  Hyperion  to  a  satyr' 114 


Palace  of  Rosenberg.     G.  F.  Sargent 116 

ViewofElsinore.     Ditto 125 


LLUSTBATION  of   act   II. 


42.  Choppines  , 


Kronberg  Castle.     G.  F.  Saroent 128 

•  The  herald  Mercury' 140 


ILLUSTRATION    OF    ACl    III. 

45.  Pictures  on  arras 141 

ACT  IV. 

46.  A  Plain  in  Denmark.     G.  F.  Saeoent 142 

47.  Danish  Sliips 


150 


ILLrSTR.vrlONS   of   act  IV. 

48.  CoeUle  Hat  and  Staff 151 

49.  Pelicans '^4 

50.  Monumental  Trophy '54 


51.  Church  and  Churchyard  at  Elsinorc.    G.  F.  Sar- 

oent      '55 

52.  Hamlet's  Grave.     Ditto 164 

illustrations  of  act  v. 

53.  'To  stop  a  flaw' — a  Rude  House 165 

54.  '  Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove' 166 

55.  •  Sword-belts  or  Hangers' 167 

supplementary  notice. 

56.  Kemble  as  Hamlet,  from  Sir  T.  I,awrence. 168 

57.  'There  is  a  willow   grows   aslant  a  brook.'      W. 

Harvey 176 


CYMBELINE. 


58.  Title-page.    From  a  design  by  T.  Creswick 177 


INTRomjCTORY   NOTICE. 

Stonehenge.    The  high  Altar,  from  a  drawing  by 

S.  Sly 179 

Coin  of  Cuno\>elinus.     From  a  specimen  in  British 

Museum 18 

Gaulish  Captive,  wearing  the  Torque 185 

Spear-head  and  Celt 186 

British  Shield  in  British  Museum 186 

Ditto,  in  Meyrick  Collection 186 

Conflict  between  Romans  and  Barbarians.     From 
the  Column  of  Trajan 187 


dramatis  person*;. 
Border. — Fidele's  flowers 


188 


act  I. 

The  Garden.    T,  Creswick 189 

'  This  diamond  was  my  mother's :  take   it,  heart.' 
,  T.  Che.swick 199 

ACT   II. 

'  Hark  1  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings.'    T. 

Creswick 201 

'  Sleep  hath  seized  me  wholly' 208 

ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   II. 

Sleeping  Children.     From  Chantrey's  Monument  in 

Lichfield  Cathedral  .......;............ 209 

Andirons.     From  originals  at  Knowle,  Kent 210 


73.  Restoration  of  the  Roman  Forum 211 

74.  '  Well,  madam,  we  must  take  a  short  farewell.'    T. 

Creswick 222 

illustration  of  act  iii. 
76.  Coin  of  Augustus.     From  a  gold  specimen  in  British 

Museum 223 


70.  The  Cave.    T.  Creswick 226 

77.  The  Forest.     Ditto 234 

ILLUSTRATION   OF    ACT   IV. 

78.  Roman  Eagle.     Enlarged  from  a  Coin  of  Domitian, 

in  the  British  Museum 335 

ACT   V. 

79.  Combat  of  Posthumus  and  lachirao 236 

ILLUbTR.vnON   OF   ACT   V. 

80.  Roman  General,  Standard  Beaier,  &c.,  landing  from 

a  bridge  of  boats.     From  Column  of  Trajan 247 

SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

81.  View  near  Milford.     T.  Creswick 248 

82.  Roman  and   British  Weapons.     From  engraved  spe- 

cimens in  Mevrick  and  Monlfaucon  252 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  VOL.  I.— TRAGEDIES. 


OTHELLO. 


83.  Titlepage.  The  scene  in  the  Council  Chamber, 
Act  I.,  Scene  iir.  The  ajiartment  represents  the 
Senate  Hall,  engraved  in  Brustolini's  '  Vedute  tli 
Vene?,ia,' lifter  a  drawing  by  Canalletti. — Drawn 
by  W.  Harvky 253 

INTBODrcrORY  NOTICE. 

S4.  A  General  of  Venice  in  time  of  War.     From  Vecellio.  255 

85.  Moriims.     From  the  Meyrick  Collection 258 

86.  Venetian  Soldier  off  Guard.     From  Vecellio 259 

DR.IMATIS  PERSON.^. 

87.  Central   portion  of  the   canal   front  of  the   Ducal 

Palace 260 


88.  Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  Venice.     From  an  ori- 

ginal drawing 3C1 

89.  The   Arsenal    at  Venice.      From   an  engraving   by 

Marieschi 272 

ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT  I. 

90.  The  Harbour  of  Rhodes.     From  a  view  in  Le  Bnm's 

'  Voyage  en  Orient' 273 

91.  .Xnthropophagi.  &c.     From  Hondiiis's  Latin  transla- 

tion of  Raleigh's  '  Voyage  to  Guiana" 275 


Pnge 

ACT   11. 

92.  The  Citadel  at  Famagusta,  Cyprus.     From  a  sketch 

by  F.  Arunoale 27fi 

93.  An  Estradiol.     From  Boissard 286 

ILLUSTRATION   OF   ACT   II. 

94.  View  of  Cerini.     From  a  sketch  by  F.  Arundalf.  . .  287 

ACT  III. 

95.  Venetian  Remains  at  Famagusta — being   a  Gothic 

Cathedral,  now  converted  into  a  Turkish  Mosque. 
From  a  sketch  by  F.  Arunoale 289 

96.  Venetian  General.     From   '  Habiti   d'   Huomini   e 

Donne  Venetiane.'     1609 300 

act  IV. 

97.  Piazza  of  the  Mosque  at  Famagusta,  with  Venetian 

Remains  (the  sculpture  on  the  keystone  of  the 
central  arch  represents  the  Lion  of  St. Mark).  From 
a  sketch  by  F.  Arundale 302 

ACT   V. 

98.  General    view  of   Famagusta.      From    Le    Brun's 

'  Voyage  en  Orient'  . ,'. 313 

99.  Venetian  Glaive,  Halberds,  and  Sword  of  an  Estra- 

diot.     From  the  Meyrick  Collection 321 

SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

100.  View  of  Famagusta,  from  the  Ramparts.     From  .i 

sketch  bv  F.  Arunpalv 323 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


101.  Title  page.     From  a  design  by  W.  Harvey  , 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

102.  Athenian  Coin.     From  a  specimen  in  the  British 

Museum 331 

103.  Pericles.     From  an  antique  Bust 343 

DRAMATIS   PERSoN.r.. 

104.  Ornamental  Border 344 


105.  View  of  Athens.     From  a  sketch  by  F.  Arundale  .  345 

106.  Ancient  Triclinium 353 

illustrations   of   ACT  I. 

107.  Rake's  Levee.     From  Hogarth 354 

108.  Marriage  a-la-Mode.     Ditto 355 


ACT  II. 

109.  Athens,   from  the   Pnyx.     From   a  sketch   by   F. 

Arundale 356 

110.  Remains  of  the  Propylaea.     From  Stuart's  '  Athens'  360 

ACT    III. 

111.  .Mhens.     Tlie  Pnyx .361 

112.  The  Parthenon.     From  a  sketch  by  F.  Arundale.  368 

ACT   IV. 

113.  Walls  of  Athens  :  restored 370 

114.  Temple  of  Theseus.   From  a  sketch  by  F.  Arundale  379 

ACT    V. 

115.  Timon's  Cave.     From  a  drawing  by  G.  F.  Sargent  380 

116.  Timon's  Grave.     Ditto 385 

ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT   V. 

117.  Alcibiades.     From  an  antique  Bust 386 

118.  Temperance.     From  Raffaelle 387 


ILLUSTRATIONS  TO  VOL.  I.— TRAGEDIES. 


KING 

Page 

119.  Title-page — (Act  v.  Scene  hi.)    From  a  design  by 

W.  Harvey 369 

INTBODUCTOBY    NOTICE. 

120.  Country  neiir  Dover.     From  .an  original  sketch  ...   391 

121.  •  My  good  biting  fauleliion.'' 399 

DRAMATIS   PEBS0N;K. 

122.  Border:  Lear's  Garland. 

"  Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter,  and  furrow  weeds. 
With  liarlocks,  lieralocks,  nettles,  cuckoo  flowers. 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn." 400 

ACT    I. 

123.  Scene  iv.    From  a  design  by  W.  Harvey 401 

ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 

124.  Henry  VIII.  and  Will  Sommers 415 

125.  The  Coxcomb.     From  '  Catzii  Emblemata.' 416 

ACT    II. 

126.  Edgar. — '  I    hoard   myself  yjroolaim'd.'      From    a 

design  by  W.  Harvey 417 

127.  Prometheus. — ■  Sharp-tooth'd   nnkindiiess,    like    a 

vulture  here.' 426 


LEAR. 

Page 
ILLUSTRATION   OF  ACT  II. 

128.  Sarum  Plain.     From  an  orii;inal  sketch 427 

ACT  III. 

129.  I.ear  in  the  Storm.     From  a  design  by  VV.  Harvev.  430 

130.  Design  by  W.  Harvey. 

"  This  night  wherein  the  cub-drawn  bear  would  c.iuch. 
The  lion,  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf,"  &c 4.39 

ACT  IV. 

131.  Dover  CliflF.     From  an  original  sketcli 444 

ILLUSTRATION   OF  ACT  IV. 

132.  Samphire 456 

ACT  V. 

133.  Dover  Castle  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth 457 

134.  Norman  Gateway,  Dover  Castle 403 

SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

135.  Lear.     After  a  Study  by  Sir  Jushua  Reynolds 464 

136.  Sophocles      From  a  Bust  in  the  Hritish  Museum. . .  471 


iiBg 


''''^''}WlZ^:~^w^\.. 


mmh 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Romeo  and  Juliet  was  first  printed  in  the  year  1597,  under  the  following  title : — "  An  excel- 
lent conceited  Tragedie  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  As  it  hath  been  often  (with  great  applause)  plaid 
publiquely,  by  the  right  honourable  the  L.  of  Hunsdon  his  Seruants."  This  edition,  a  copy  of 
which  is  of  great  rarity  and  value,  was  reprinted  by  Steevens,  in  his  collection  of  twenty  of  the 
plays  of  Shakspere. 

The  second  edition  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  printed  in  1599,  under  the  following  title : — "The 
most  excellent  and  lamentable  Tragedie,  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Newly  corrected,  augmented, 
and  amended :  As  it  hath  bene  sundry  times  publiquely  acted,  by  the  right  Honourable  the  Lord 
Chamberlaine  his  Seruants."  This  edition  is  also  rare ;  but  we  have  had  the  advantage  of  using 
a  copy  in  the  British  Museum. 

The  subsequent  original  editions  are, — an  undated  quarto;  a  quarto  in  1607;  a  quarto  in 
1609,  which  has  also  been  reprinted  by  Steevens  ;  and  the  folio  of  1623.  All  these  editions  are 
founded  upon  the  quarto  of  1599,  from  which  they  differ  very  slightly. 

We  have  taken  the  folio  of  1 623  as  the  basis  of  our  text,  indicating  the  differences  between  that 
text  and  the  quartos  subsequent  to  that  of  1597,  whenever  any  occur.  But  we  have  not  at- 
tempted to  make  up  a  text,  as  was  done  by  Pope,  and  subsequently  by  Steevens,  out  of  the 
amended  quarto  of  1599  and  the  original  of  1597.  In  some  instances,  indeed,  the  quarto  of  1597 
is  of  importance  in  the  formation  of  a  text,  for  the  correction  of  typographical  errors,  which  have 
run  through  the  subsequent  editions.  Wherever  our  text  differs  from  that  commonly  received, 
we  state  the  difference,  and  the  reasons  for  that  difference.  Our  general  reasons  for  founding  the 
text  upon  the  folio  of  1623,  which  is,  in  truth,  to  found  it  upon  the  quarto  of  1599,  are  as  follows : — 
The  quarto  of  1599  was  declared  to  be  "  Newly  corrected,  augmented,  and  amended."  There 
can  be  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  corrections,  augmentations,  and  emendations  were  those  of  the 
author.  There  are  typographical  errors  in  this  edition,  and  in  all  the  editions,  and  occasional 
confusions  of  the  metrical  arrangement,  which  render  it  more  than  probable  that  Shakspere  did  not 
see  the  proofs  of  his  printed  works.  But  that  the  copy,  both  of  the  first  edition  and  of  the  second, 
was  derived  from  him,  is,  to  our  minds,  perfectly  certain.  We  know  of  nothing  in  literary  history 
more  curious  or  more  instructive  than  the  example  of  minute  attention,  as  well  as  consummate 
skUl,  exhibited  by  Shakspere  in  correcting,  augmenting,  and  amending  the  first  copy  of  this  play. 
We  would  ask,  then,  upon  what  canon  of  criticism  can  an  editor  be  justified  in  foisting  into  a  copy 
Tragedies Vol.  I.        B  3 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

so  corrected,  passages  of  the  original  copy,  which  the  matured  judgment  of  the  author  had  re- 
jected ?  Essentially  the  question  ought  not  to  be  determined  by  any  arbitrement  whatever  other 
than  the  judgment  of  the  author.  Even  if  his  corrections  did  not  appear,  in  every  case,  to  be  im- 
provements, we  should  be  still  bound  to  receive  them  with  respect  and  deference.  We  would  not, 
indeed,  attempt  to  establish  it  as  a  rule  implicitly  to  be  followed,  that  an  author's  last  corrections 
are  to  be  invariably  adopted ;  for,  as  in  the  case  of  Cowper's  Homer,  and  Tasso's  Jerusalem,  the 
corrections  which  these  poets  made  in  their  first  productions,  when  their  faculties  were  in  a  great 
degree  clouded  and  worn  out,  are  properly  considered  as  not  entitled  to  supersede  what  they  pro- 
duced in  brighter  and  happier  hours.  Mr.  Southey  has  admirably  stated  the  reason  for  this  in 
the  advertisement  to  his  edition  of  Cowper's  Homer.  But  in  the  case  of  Shakspere's  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  the  corrections  and  augmentations  were  made  by  him  at  that  epoch  of  his  life  when  he 
exhibited  "  all  the  graces  and  facilities  of  a  genius  in  full  possession  and  habitual  exercise  of 
power."*  The  augmentations,  with  one  or  two  very  trifling  exceptions,  are  amongst  the  most 
masterly  passages  in  the  whole  play,  and  include  many  of  the  lines  that  are  invariably  turned  to,  as 
some  of  the  highest  examples  of  poetical  beauty.  These  augmentations,  further,  are  so  large  in 
their  amount,  that  in  Steevens'  reprint,  the  first  edition  occupies  only  seventy-three  pages;  while 
the  edition  of  1609,  in  the  same  volume,  printed  in  the  same  type  as  the  first  edition,  occupies 
ninety-nine  pages.  The  corrections  are  made  with  such  exceeding  judgment,  such  marvellous 
tact,  that  of  themselves  they  completely  overthrow  the  theory,  so  long  submitted  to,  that  Shak- 
spere  was  a  careless  writer.  We  have  furnished  abundant  evidence  of  this  in  our  foot  notes,  in 
which  we  have  exhibited  some  of  the  more  remarkable  of  the  amended  passages,  and  have  indi- 
cated the  most  important  augmentations.  Such  being  the  case,  we  consider  ourselves  justified  in 
treating  the  labour  of  Steevens  and  other  editors,  in  making  a  patchwork  text  out  of  the  author's 
first  and  second  copies,  as  utterly  worthless ;  and  we  have,  therefore,  in  nearly  every  instance, 
rejected  the  passages  from  the  first  copy,  wliich  these  editors,  to  use  their  own  word,  have 
recovered  to  swell  out  the  second  copy,  as  mere  surplusage  which  the  author  had  himself  rejected. 
We  have,  of  course,  indicated  these  changes  from  the  commonly  received  text;  but  we  will  just 
present  one  example  here,  and  we  purposely  select  a  familiar  one. 

In  the  scene  where  the  Nurse  and  Peter  encounter  Romeo  and  his  friends  in  the  street,  their 
first  words  are  thus  given  in  the  editions  of  Johnson  and  Steevens,  of  Reed,  and  of  Malone,  and 
are  copied,  of  course,  in  all  the  popular  editions : — 

"  Nurse.  Peter! 
Peter.  Anon! 
Nurse.  My  fan,  Peter. 
Mercutio.  Pr'ythee,  do,  good  Peter,  to  hide  her  face." 

In  Shakspere's  own  corrected  edition  of  1599,  there  is  no  '■'■  pr'ythee,  do."  How  comes  it,  then, 
into  Johnson  and  Steevens  ?  Through  an  adulteration  of  two  texts.  In  the  original  copy  of 
1597,  the  Nurse,  instead  of  "Peter,  my  fan,"  says,  "Peter,  pr'ythee,  give  me  my  fan,"  and 
Mercutio,  in  raillery,  adds,  "  Pr'ythee,  do,  good  Peter."  Each  of  Shakspere's  own  readings  is 
obviously  good :  but  the  mixing  up  of  the  two  readings  by  the  modern  editors  is  obviously 
nonsense.  But  this  is  not  all  that  Steevens  has  "recovered"  in  the  matter  of  this  fan.  In  the 
first  copy  the  scene  concludes  with, 

"  Nurse.  Peter,  take  ray  fan  and  go  before." 

In  the  second  copy,  Shakspere  wisely  thought  that  it  was  enough  to  make  the  people  laugh  once 
at  Peter  and  the  fan,  and  he,  therefore,  substitutes  for  the  above  line, 

"  Nurse.  Before  and  apace." 

The  modern  editors  do  not  agree  with  Shakspere,  and  they  "recover"  out  of  the  first  quarto  the  line 
which  Shakspere  rejected.  But  enough  of  this.  We  have  no  wish  to  depreciate  the  labours  of  our 
predecessors.  We  thoroughly  agree  with  Southey,  that  "though  in  their  cumbrous  annotations  the 
last  labourer  always  added  more  rubbish  to  the  heaps  which  his  predecessors  had  accumulated,  they 
did  good  service  by  directing  attention  to  our  earlier  literature. "f  We  most  readily  acknowledge 
our  own  particular  obligations  to  them ;  for,  unless  they  had  collected  a  great  mass  of  materials,  the 

*  t'olci'idgc's  Literary  Remains.  t  Life  of  Cowpcr,  vol.  ii.  p.  178. 

4 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

present  edition  could  not  have  been  undertaken.  But  we,  nevertheless,  cannot  conceal  our  opinion, 
that  as  editors  they  were  rash,  and  as  critics  they  were  cold  and  unimaginative;  and  we  hold  it  to 
be  the  highest  duty  to  attempt  to  undo  what  they  have  done,  when  they  approach  their  author, 
as  in  their  manufacture  of  a  text  for  Romeo  and  Juliet,  "without  reverence."  We  believe,  as 
they  did  not,  "  that  his  own  judgment  is  entitled  to  more  respect  than  that  of  any  or  all  his 
critics;"*  and  we  shall  attempt  to  vindicate  that  judgment  on  every  occasion,  upon  the  great  prin- 
ciple laid  down  by  Bentley  : — "  The  point  is  not  what  he  might  have  done,  but  wliat  he  has  done." 
In  attempting  to  settle  the  Chronology  of  Shakspere's  plays,  there  are,  as  in  every  other 
case  of  literary  history,  two  species  of  evidence  to  be  regarded — the  extrinsic  and  the  intrinsic. 
Of  the  former  species  of  evidence  we  have  the  one  important  fact  that  a  Romeo  and  Juliet  by 
Shakspere,  however  wanting  in  the  completeness  of  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  which  we  now  possess, 
was  published  in  1597.  The  enumeration  of  this  play,  therefore,  in  the  list  by  Francis  Meres, 
in  1598,  adds  nothing  to  our  previous  information.  In  the  same  manner,  the  mention  of  this  play 
by  Marston,  in  his  tenth  satire,  first  published  in  1599,  only  shows  us  how  popular  it  was : — 

"  Luscus,  what 's  plaid  to-day  ?  i'  faith  now  I  know; 
I  see  thy  lips  a  broach,  from  whence  doth  flow 
Naught  but  pure  Juliet  and  Romeo." 

The  "corrected,  amended,  and  augmented"  copy  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  printed  in  1599  ;  and 
as  Marston's  tenth  satire  did  not  appear  in  his  "  Three  Books  of  Satires,"  first  printed  in  1598, 
it  is  by  no  means  improbable  that  his  mention  of  the  play  referred  to  the  improved  copy  which 
was  in  that  year  being  acted  by  "The  Lord  Chamberlain  his  servants."  We  might  here 
dismiss  the  extrinsic  evidence  ;  but  Malone  thinks,  contrary  to  his  original  opinion  of  the  date  of 
the  play,  that  the  statement  in  the  title  page  of  the  original  quarto,  "  that  it  had  been  often 
(with  great  applause)  plaid  publiquely  by  the  right  honourable  the  Lord  Hunsdon  his  servants," 
decides  that  it  was  first  played  in  1596.  His  reasons  are  these: — Henry  Lord  Hunsdon,  and 
George  Lord  Hunsdon,  his  son,  each  filled  the  ofliice  of  Lord  Chamberlain  under  Elizabeth. 
Henry,  the  father,  died  on  the  22nd  July,  1596,  Shakspere's  tompany,  during  the  life  of  this 
lord,  were  called  the  "Lord  Chamberlain's  men;"  but,  according  to  Malone,  they  bore  this 
designation,  not  as  being  attached  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain  officially,  but  as  the  servants 
of  Lord  Hunsdon,  whose  title,  as  a  nobleman,  was  merged  in  that  of  his  office.  George  Lord 
Hunsdon  was  not  appointed  Lord  Chamberlain  till  April,  1597  ;  and  in  the  interval  after  the 
death  of  his  father  his  company  of  comedians  were  not  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  servants,  but 
Lord  Hunsdon's  servants.  This,  no  doubt,  is  decisive  as  to  the  play  being  performed  before 
George  Lord  Hunsdon ;  but  it  is  not  in  any  degree  decisive  as  to  the  play  not  having  been 
performed  without  the  advantage  of  this  nobleman's  patronage.  The  first  date  of  the  printing  of 
any  play  of  Shakspere  goes  a  very  short  way  to  determine  the  date  of  its  theatrical  production. 
We  are  very  much  in  the  dark  as  to  the  mode  in  which  a  play  passed  from  one  form  of  publica- 
tion, that  of  the  theatre,  into  another  form  of  publication,  that  of  the  press.  We  have  no  evi- 
dence to  show,  in  any  case,  that  the  original  publication  through  the  press,  of  any  of  Shakspere's 
separate  plays  had  the  sanction  of  their  author.  The  editors  of  the  first  collected  edition  of  his 
works  call  these  original  publications,  "stolen  and  surreptitious  copies,  maimed  and  deformed  by 
the  frauds  and  stealths  of  injurious  impostors."  They  would  scarcely  have  ventured  so  to  have 
designated  any  of  the  works  if  they  had  been  originally  published  under  the  author's  superintend- 
ence ;  for  their  assertion  could  have  been  easily  contradicted,  if  it  had  been  untrue,  by  living 
witnesses.  The  great  probability  is,  that,  when  a  play  had  become  very  popular,  it  was  printed 
by  some  means  or  other — by  the  people  connected  with  the  theatre,  or  by  persons  who  took  down 
the  words  at  the  theatre.  It  is  no  evidence,  therefore,  to  our  minds,  that  because  the  Romeo  and 
Juliet  first  printed  in  1597  is  stated  to  have  been  publicly  acted  by  the  Lord  Hunsdon  his  servants, 
it  was  not  publicly  acted  long  before,  under  circumstances  that  would  appear  less  attractive  in 
the  bookseller's  title  page. 

Of  th<i  positive  intrinsic  evidence  of  the  date  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  play,  as  it  appears  to 
us,  only  furnishes  one  passage,  to  which  we  shall  presently  more  particularly  advert.  Chalmers 
has,  indeed,  given  three  passages  from  Daniel's  "Complaint  of  Rosamond,"  first  printed  in  1592, 

*  Southey  (speaking  of  Cowper). 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

which  appear  a  little  like  imitations  either  of  Daniel  by  Shakspere,  or  of  Shakspere  by  Daniel. 
Malone  has  also  given  another  passage  from  the  old  comedy  of  "Doctor  DodipoU,"  which  has 
some  similarity  to  the  speech  of  Juliet,  "  take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars."  If  the  Romeo 
and  Juliet  were  produced  before  these  pieces,  which  we  believe,  the  resemblances  Avould  not  be 
close  enough  to  justify  us  in  saying  that  their  authors  borrowed  from  Shakspere ;  and  they  con- 
sequently have  as  little  weight  with  us  to  fix  the  date  of  the  play  after  their  production. 

The  one  piece  of  intrinsic  evidence  to  which  we  have  referred  is  this.     The  Nurse,  describing 
the  time  when  Juliet  was  weaned,  says, 

"  On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen ; 
That  shall  she,  marry ;  I  remember  it  well. 
'T  is  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years ; 

Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall, 

jn        «        *        «        «        *        * 
Shake,  quoth  the  dove-house;  'twas  no  need,  I  trow, 
To  bid  me  trudge. 
And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years." 

All  this  particularity  with  reference  to  the  earthquake, 


I  never  shall  forget  it, — 


Of  all  the  days  of  the  year" — 

was  for  the  audience.     The  poet  had  to  exhibit  the  minuteness  with  which  unlettered  people,  and 
old  people  in  particular,  establish  a  date,  by  reference  to  some  circumstance  which  has  made  a 
particular  impression  upon  their  imagination ;  but  in  this  case  he  chose  a  circumstance  which 
would  be  familiar  to  his  audience,  and  would  have  produced  a  corresponding  impression  upon 
themselves.     Tyrwhitt  was  the  first  to  point  out  that  this  passage  had,  in  all  probability,  a  refe- 
rence to  the  great  earthquake  which  happened  in  England  in  1580.      Stow  has  described  this 
earthquake  minutely  in  his  Chronicle,  and  so  has  Holinshed.     "  On  the  sixth  of  April,  1 580,  being 
Wednesday  in  Easter  week,  about  six  o'clock  toward  evening,  a  sudden  earthquake  happening  in 
London,  and  almost  generally  throughout  all  England,  caused  such  an  amazedness  among  the 
people  as  was  wonderful  for  the  time,  and  caused  them  to  make  their  earnest  prayers  to  Almighty 
God !"   The  circumstances  attendant  upon  this  earthquake  show  that  the  remembrance  of  it  would 
not  have  easily  passed  away  from  the  minds  of  the  people.  The  great  clock  in  the  palace  at  West- 
minster, and  divers  other  clocks  and  bells,  struck  of  themselves  against  the  hammers  with  the 
shaking  of  the  earth.     The  lawyers  supping  in  the  Temple  "ran  from  the  tables,  and  out  of 
their  halls,  with  their  knives  in  their  hands."     The  people  assembled  at  the  theatres  rushed  forth 
into  the  fields  lest  the  galleries  should  fall.     The  roof  of  Christ  Church  near  to  Newgate-market 
was  so  shaken,  that  a  large  stone  dropt  out  of  it,  killing  one  person,  and  mortally  wounding 
another,  it  being  sermon  time.     Chimneys  toppled  down,  houses  were  shattered.     Shakspere, 
therefore,  could  not  have  mentioned  an  earthquake  with  the  minuteness  of  the  passage  in  the 
Nurse's  speech  without  immediately  calling  up  some  associations  in  the  minds  of  his  audience. 
He  knew  the  double  world  in  which  an  excited  audience  lives, — the  half  belief  in  the  world  of 
poetry  amongst  which  they  are  placed  during  a  theatrical  representation,  and  the  half  conscious, 
ness  of  the  external  world  of  their  ordinary  life.     The  ready  disposition  of  every  audience  to 
make  a  transition  from  the  scene  before  them  to  the  scene  in  which  they  ordinarily  move, — to 
assimilate  what  is  shadowy  and  distant  with  what  is  distinct  and  at  hand, — is  perfectly  well  known 
to  all  who  are  acquainted  with  the  machinery  of  the  drama.     Actors  seize  upon  the  principle  to 
perpetrate  the  grossest  violations  of  good  taste ;  and  authors  who  write  for  present  applause 
invariably  do  the  same  when  they  offer  us,  in  their  dialogue,  a  passing  allusion,  which  is  techni- 
cally called  a  clap-trap.     In  the  case  before  us,  even  if  Shakspere  had  not  this  principle  in  view, 
the  association  of  the  English  earthquake  must  have  been  strongly  in  his  mind  when  he  made  the 
Nurse  date  from  an  earthquake.     Without  reference  to  the  circumstance  of  Juliet's  age, 

"  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come  Lammas-eve  at  night,  shall  she  be  fourteen ; 

he  would  naturally,  dating  from  the  earthquake,  have  made  the  date  refer  to  the  period  of  his 
6 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

writing  the  passage  instead  of  the  period  of  Juliet's  being  weaned  : — "Then  she  could  stand 
alone."  But,  according  to  the  Nurse's  chronology,  Juliet  had  not  arrived  at  that  epoch  in  the 
lives  of  children  till  she  was  three  years  old.  The  very  contradiction  shows  that  Shakspere  had 
another  object  in  view  than  that  of  making  the  Nurse's  chronology  tally  with  the  age  of  her 
nursling.     Had  he  written — 

"  'T  is  since  the  earthquake  ao^just  thirteen  years," 

we  should  not  have  been  so  ready  to  believe  that  Romeo  and  Juliet  was  written  in  1593  ;  but  as 
he  has  written — 

"  'Tis  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years," 

in  defiance  of  a  very  obvious  calculation  on  the  part  of  the  Nurse,  we  have  no  doubt  that  he 
wrote  the  passage  eleven  years  after  the  earthquake  of  1580,  and  that  the  passage  being  also 
meant  to  fix  the  attention  of  an  audience,  the  play  was  produced,  as  well  as  written,  in  1591. 

Reasoning  such  as  this  would,  we  acknowledge,  be  very  weak  if  it  were  unsupported  by  evi- 
dence deduced  from  the  general  character  of  the  performance,  with  reference  to  the  maturity  of 
the  author's  powers.  But,  taken  in  connexion  with  that  evidence,  it  becomes  important.  Now, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  believing,  although  it  would  be  exceedingly  difficult  to  communicate 
the  grounds  of  our  belief  fully  to  our  readers,  that  the  alterations  made  by  Shakspere  upon  his  first 
copy  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  as  printed  in  1597  (which  alterations  are  shown  in  his  second  copy  as 
printed  in  1599),  exhibit  differences  as  to  the  quality  of  his  mind— differences  in  judgment— 
difiierences  in  the  cast  of  thought — differences  in  poetical  power — which  cannot  be  accounted  for 
by  the  growth  of  his  mind  during  two  years  only.  If  the  first  Romeo  and  Juliet  were  produced 
in  1591,  and  the  second  in  1599,  we  have  an  interval  of  eight  years,  in  which  some  of  his  most 
finished  works  had  been  given  to  the  world ; — all  his  great  historical  plays,  except  Henry  V. 
and  Henry  VIII.,  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  Duiing  this 
period  his  richness,  as  well  as  his  sweetness,  had  been  developed  ;  and  it  is  this  development 
which  is  so  remarkable  in  the  superadded  passages  in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  We  almost  fancy  that 
the  "  Queen  Mab"  speech  will  of  itself  furnish  an  example  of  what  we  mean. 

"  Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut. 
Made  by  the  joiner  Squirrel,  or  old  Grub, 
,  Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers." 

These  lines  are  not  in  the  first  copy  ;  but  how  beautifully  they  fit  in  after  the  description  of  the 
spokes — the  cover — the  traces — the  collars — the  whip — and  the  waggoner ;  while,  in  their  pecu- 
liarly rich  and  picturesque  effect,  they  stand  out  before  all  the  rest  of  the  passage.  Then,  the 
"  I  have  seen  the  day — *  *  *  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,"  of  old  Capulet,  seems  to  speak 
more  of  the  middle-aged  than  of  the  youthful  poet,  of  whom  all  the  passages  by  which  it  is  sur- 
rounded are  characteristic.     Again,  the  lines  in  the  friar's  soliloquy,  beginning 

"  The  earth,  that's  nature's  mother,  is  her  tomb," 

look  like  the  work  of  one  who  had  been  reading  and  thinking  more  deeply  of  nature's  mys- 
teries, than  in  his  first  delineation  of  the  benevolent  philosophy  of  this  good  old  man.  But,  as 
we  advance  in  the  play,  the  development  of  the  writer's  powers  is  more  and  more  displayed  in 
his  additions.  The  examples  are  far  too  numerous  for  us  to  particularize  many  of  them.  The 
critical  reader  may  trace  what  has  been  added  by  our  foot  notes.  We  would  especially  direct 
attention  to  the  soliloquy  of  Juliet  in  the  fifth  scene  of  Act  II. ; — to  her  soliloquy,  also,  in  the 
second  Scene  of  Act  III. ; — and  to  her  great  soliloquy,  before  taking  the  draught,  in  the  fourth 
Act.  We  have  given  this  last  passage  as  it  stood  in  the  original  copy ;  and  we  confidently 
believe  that  whoever  peruses  it  with  attention  will  entertain  little  doubt  that  the  original  sketcli 
was  the  work  of  a  much  younger  man  than  the  perfect  composition  which  we  now  possess.  The 
whole  of  the  magnificent  speech  of  Romeo  in  the  tomb  may  be  said  to  be  re-written :  and  it 
produces  m  us  precisely  the  same  impression,  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  genius  much  more  mature 
than  that  which  is  exhibited  in  the  original  copy. 

Tieck,  who,  as  a  translator  of  Shakspere,  and  as  a  profound  and  beautiful  critic,  has  done  very 
much  for  cultivating  the  knowledge,  built  upon  love,  which  the  Germans  possess  of  our  poet,  has 

7 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

not  been  trammelled  by  Malone  and  Chalmers,  buthas  placed  Romeo  and  Juliet  amongst  Shakspere's 
early  plays.  We  have  no  exact  statements  on  this  subject  by  Tieck ;  but,  in  a  very  delightful 
imaginary  scene  between  Marlowe  and  Greene,  he  has  made  Marlowe  describe  to  his  brother 
dramatist  the  first  performance  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  which  he  had  been  witness.*  Tieck  has 
made  this  imaginary  conversation  a  vehicle  for  the  most  enthusiastic  praise  of  this  play.  Marlowe 
describes  the  performance  as  taking  place  at  the  palace  of  the  Lord  Hunsdon.  He  had 
expected,  he  says,  that  one  of  his  own  plays  would  have  been  performed  ;  but  he  found  that  it  was 
"  that  old  poem,  which  we  have  all  long  known,  worked  up  into  a  tragedy."  After  Marlowe  has 
run  through  the  general  characteristics  of  the  play,  with  an  eloquent  admiration,  mingled  with  deep 
regret  that  he  himself  had  been  able  to  approach  so  distantly  the  excellence  of  that  "  out-sounding 
mouth,  which  a  god-like  muse  has  herself  inspired  with  the  sweetest  of  her  kisses,"  he  thus  replies 
to  Greene's  inquiry  as  to  who  was  the  poet : — "  Wilt  thou  believe  ? — one  of  Henslow's  common 
comedians,  who  has  already  served  him  many  years  on  very  low  wages."  "  And  now,  if  thy  fever 
has  passed,"  said  Greene,  "  let  us  look  on  this  thing  in  the  broad  light.  This  is  merely  such  a 
passing  apparition  as  we  have  seen  many  of  before — admired,  gaped  at,  praised  without  limit, — but 
full  of  faults  and  imperfections,  and  soon  to  be  altogether  forgotten."  "  The  same  thing,"  said 
Marlowe,  "  the  same  words  were  whispered  to  me  by  my  base  envy,  Avhen  I  observed  the  universal 
delight,  the  deep  emotion,  of  every  spectator.  I  endeavoured  to  comfort  myself  therewith,  and 
again  to  recover  my  lost  honours  in  tliis  miserable  manner.  I  fled  from  the  company ;  and  the 
house-steward,  who  had  acted  as  an  assistant,  gave  me  the  manuscript  of  the  play.  In  my  lonely 
chamber  I  sat  and  read  the  whole  night,  and  read  again, — and  each  time  admu-ed  the  more ;  for 
much  that  had  appeared  to  me  episodical  or  superfluous,  acquired,  on  more  exact  examination,  a 
significancy  and  needful  fulness.  The  good  house-steward  gave  me  also  another  poem,  which  the 
author  has  not  yet  quite  completed,  Venus  and  Adonis,  that  I  might  read  it  in  my  nightly  leisure. 
My  friend,  even  here,  even  in  this  sweet  narrative, — even  in  this  soft  speech  and  voluptuous 
imagery, — in  this  intoxicating  realm,  where  I,  till  now,  only  looked  upon  likenesses  of  myself, — I 
am  completely,  completely,  beaten.  O  this  man,  this  more  than  mortal,  to  him  (I  feel  as  if  my  life 
depends  on  it)  I  must  become  the  most  intimate  friend  or  the  most  bitter  enemy.  Either  I  will 
yet  find  my  way  to  him,  or  I  will  succumb  to  this  Apollo,  and  he  may  then  speak  over  my  out- 
stretched corpse  the  last  words  of  praise  or  blame."  We  have  given  this  account  of  Tieck's 
dialogue  on  the  Romeo  and  Juliet, — first,  that  we  might  have  the  pleasure  of  making  this  lover 
of  Shakspere  known  to  those  of  our  readers  who  are  unacquainted  with  his  works ;  and,  secondly, 
that  we  might  corroborate  our  own  views  of  the  Chronology  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  by  his  autho- 
rity. He  has  decidedly  placed  the  date  of  its  performance  before  1592, — for  Greene  died  in  that 
year,  and  Marlowe  in  the  year  following.  The  Venus  and  Adonis,  which  is  here  mentioned  as 
not  quite  completed,  was  published  in  1593.  Tieck  built  his  opinion,  no  doubt,  upon  internal 
evidence ;  and  upon  this  evidence  we  must  be  content  to  let  the  question  rest. 


Supposed  Source  op  the  Plot. 
When  Dante  reproaches  the  Emperor  Albert  for  neglect  of  Italy, — ■ 

" Thy  sire  and  thou  have  suffer'd  thus. 


Through  greediness  of  yonder  realms  detain'd, 
The  garden  of  the  empire  to  run  waste," — 

He  adds, — 

"  Come,  see  the  Capulets  and  Montagues, 
The  Filippeschi  and  Monaldi,  man. 
Who  car'st  for  nought!  those  sunk  in  grief,  and  these 
With  dire  suspicion  rack'd."t 

The  Capulets  and  Montagues  were  amongst  the  fierce  spirits  who,  according  to  the  poet,  had 
rendered  Italy  "  savage  and  unmanageable."     The  Emperor  Albert  was  murdered  in  1308  ;  and 

*  Dichterleben,  von  Tieck.    Berlin,  1828,  p.  128,  &c.  f  Purgatory,  Canto  G.     Cari/s  translation. 

8 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

the  Veronese,  who  believe  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  be  historically  true,  fix  the  date  of 
this  tragedy  as  1309.     At  that  period  the  Scalas,  or  Scaligers,  ruled  over  Verona. 

If  the  records  of  history  tell  us  little  of  the  fair  Capulet  and  her  loved  Montague,  whom  Shak- 
spere  has  made  immortal,  the  novelists  have  seized  upon  the  subject,  as  might  be  expected,  from 
its  interest  and  its  obscurity.  Massuccio,  a  Neapolitan,  who  lived  about  1470,  was,  it  is  sup- 
posed, the  writer  who  first  gave  a  somewhat  similar  story  the  clothing  of  a  connected  fiction. 
He  places  the  scene  at  Sienna,  and,  of  course,  there  is  no  mention  of  the  Montagues  and  Oapulets. 
The  story,  too,  of  Massuccio  varies  in  its  catastrophe ;  the  bride  recovering  from  her  lethargy, 
produced  by  the  same  means  as  in  the  case  of  Juliet ;  aud  the  husband  being  executed  for  a  mur- 
der which  had  caused  him  to  fiee  from  his  country.  Mr.  Douce  has  endeavoured  to  trace  back 
the  ground-work  of  the  tale  to  a  Greek  romance  by  Xenophon  Ephesius.  Luigi  da  Porto,  of 
Vicenza,  gave  a  connected  form  to  the  legend  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  in  a  novel,  under  the  title  of 
"  La  Giuletta,"  which  was  published  after  his  death  in  1535.  Luigi,  in  an  epistle  which  is  pre- 
fixed to  this  work,  states  that  the  story  was  told  him  by  "  an  archer  of  mine,  whose  name  was 
Peregrine,  a  man  about  fifty  years  old,  well  practised  in  the  military  art,  a  pleasant  companion, 
and,  like  almost  all  his  countrymen  of  Verona,  a  great  talker."  Bandello,  in  1554,  published  a 
novel  on  the  same  subject,  the  ninth  of  his  second  collection.  It  begins  "  when  the  Scaligers  were 
lords  of  Verona,"  and  goes  on  to  say  that  these  events  happened  "  under  Bartholomew  Scaliger" 
(Bartolomeo  della  Scala).  The  various  materials  to  be  found  in  these  sources  were  embodied  in 
a  French  novel  by  Pierre  Boisteau,  a  translation  of  which  was  published  by  Painter  in  his  Palace 
of  Pleasure,  in  1567  ;  and  upon  this  French  story  was  founded  the  English  poem  by  Arthur 
Brooke,  published  in  1562,  under  the  title  of  "  The  tragicall  Historye  of  Romeus  and  Juliet, 
written  first  in  Italian  by  Bandell,  and  nowe  in  Englishe  by  Ar.  Br."  It  appears  highly  pro- 
^able  that  an  English  play  upon  the  same  subject  had  appeared  previous  to  Brooke's  poem ;  for  a 
copy  of  that  poem,  which  was  in  the  possession  of  the  Rev.  H.  White,  of  Lichfield,  contains  the 
following  passage,  in  an  address  to  the  reader:  "Though  I  saw  the  same  argument  lately  set 
forth  on  the  stage  with  more  commendation  than  I  can  look  for :  being  there  much  better  set 
foorth  than  I  have  or  can  dooe,  yet  the  same  matter  penned  as  it  is  may  serve  to  lyke  good  effect, 
if  the  readers  do  brynge  with  them  lyke  good  myndes,  to  consider  it,  which  hath  the  more  in- 
couraged  me  to  publish  it,  suche  as  it  is."  We  thus  see  that  Shakspere  had  materials  enough  to 
work  upon.  But  in  addition  to  these  sources,  there  is  a  play  by  Lope  de  Vega  in  which  the  in- 
cidents are  very  similar;  and  an  Italian  tragedy  also  by  Luigi  Groto  which  Mr.  Walker,  ui  his 
Historical  memoir  of  Italian  tragedy,  thinks  that  the  English  bard  read  with  profit.  Mr.  Walker 
gives  us  passages  in  support  of  his  assertion,  such  as  a  description  of  a  nightingale  when  the  lovers 
are  parting,  which  appear  to  confirm  this  opinion. 

To  attempt  to  shew,  as  many  have  attempted,  what  Shakspere  took  from  the  poem  of  the 
Romeus  and  Juliet,  and  what  from  Painter's  Palace  of  Pleasure — how  he  was  "wretchedly  misled 
in  his  catastrophe,"  as  Mr.  Dunlop  has  it,  because  he  had  not  read  Luigi  da  Porto — and  how  he 
invented  only  one  incident  throughout  the  play,  that  of  the  death  of  Paris,  and  created  only  one 
character,  that  of  Mercutio,  according  to  the  sagacious  Mrs.  Lenox — appears  to  us  somewhat 
idle  work.  At  any  rate,  we  have  not  space  to  attempt  such  illustrations,  beyond  giving  one  or 
two  examples  of  the  old  poem  in  our  notes. 


Period  of  the  Action,  and  Manners. 

The  slight  foundation  of  historical  truth  which  can  be  established  in  the  legend  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet— that  of  the  "civU  broils"  of  the  two  rival  houses  of  Verona— would  place  the  period  of 
the  action  about  the  time  ofDante.  But  this  one  circumstance  ought  not,  as  it  appears  to  us,  very 
strictly  to  limit  this  period.  The  legend  is  so  obscure,  that  we  may  be  justified  in  carrying  its  date 
forward  or  backward,  to  the  extent  even  of  a  century,  if  anything  may  be  gained  by  such  a  free- 
dom. In  this  case,  we  may  venture  to  associate  the  story  with  the  period  which  followed  the  times 
of  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio — verging  towards  the  close  of  the  fourteenth  century — a  period  full  of 
rich  associations.   Then,  the  literary  treasures  of  the  ancient  world  had  been  rescued  out  of  the  dust 

Tragedies. — Vol.  I.        C  9 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

and  darkness  of  ages, — the  language  of  Italy  had  been  formed,  in  great  part,  by  the  marvellous 
"  Visions"  of  her  greatest  poet;  painting  had  been  revived  by  Giotto  and  Cimabue ;  architecture 
had  put  on  a  character  of  beauty  and  majesty,  and  the  first  necessities  of  shelter  and  defence 
had  been  associated  with  the  higher  demands  of  comfort  and  taste ;  sculpture  had  displayed  itself 
in  many  beautiful  productions,  both  in  marble  and  bronze  ;  and  music  had  been  cultivated  as  a 
science.  All  these  were  the  growth  of  the  freedom  which  prevailed  in  the  Italian  republics,  and 
of  the  wealth  which  had  been  acquired  by  commercial  enterprise,  under  the  impulses  of  freedom. 
To  date  the  period  of  the  action  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  before  this  revival  of  learning  and  the  arts, 
would  be  to  make  its  accessories  out  of  harmony  with  the  exceeding  beauty  of  Shakspere's  drama. 
Even  if  a  slight  portion  of  historical  accuracy  be  sacrificed,  his  poetry  must  be  surrounded  with 
an  appropriate  atmosphere  of  grace  and  richness. 

Of  the  Manners  of  this  play  we  have  occasionally  spoken  in  our  Illustrations.  With  the 
exception  of  a  few  English  allusions,  which  are  introduced  for  a  particular  object,  they  are 
thoroughly  Italian.  Mrs.  Jameson  has  noticed  the  "  sunny  brilliance  of  effect,"  with  which  the 
whole  of  this  drama  is  lighted  up  ;  and  she  adds,  with  equal  truth  and  elegance,  "  the  blue  sky 
of  Italy  bends  over  aU." 


Costume. 

Assuming,  as  we  have  done,  that  the  incidents  of  this  tragedy  took  place  (at  least  traditionally) 
at  the  commencement  of  the  fourteenth  century,  the  costume  of  the  personages  represented  would 
be  that  exhibited  to  us  in  the  paintings  of  Giotto  and  his  pupils  or  contemporaries. 

From  a  drawing  of  the  former,  now  in  the  British  Museum  (Payne  Knight's  Collect.),  and  pre- 
sumed to  have  been  executed  by  him  at  Avignon,  in  1313,  we  give  the  accompanying  engraving,  and 
our  readers  will  perceive  that  it  interferes  sadly  with  all  popular  notions  of  the  dress  of  this  play. 


The  long  robes  of  the  male  personages,  so  magisterial  or  senatorial  in  their  appearance,  would, 
perhaps,  when  composed  of  rich  materials,  be  not  unsuitable  to  the  gravity  and  station  of  the 
elder  Montague  and  Capulet,  and  of  the  Prince,  or  Podesta,  of  Verona  himself:  but,  for  the 
younger  and  lighter  characters,  the  love-lorn  Romeo,  the  fiery  Tybalt,  the  gallant  gay  Mercutio, 
&c.,  some  very  diff'erent  habit  would  be  expected  by  the  million,  and,  indeed,  desired  by  the  artist. 
Caesar  Vecellio,  in  his  "  Habiti  Antichi  e  Moderni,"  presents  us  with  a  dress  of  this  time,  which 
he  distinctly  describes  as  that  of  a  young  nobleman  in  a  love-making  expedition. 


"  Habito  Anlico  di  Giovani  nobile  ornato  per  far  Vamore^ 


10 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

He  assigns  no  particular  date  to  it,  but  the  pointed  cowl,  or  hood,  depending  from  the  shoul- 
ders, the  closely-set  buttons  down  tlie  front  of  the  super-tunic,  and  up  the  arms  of  the  under- 
garment, from  the  wrist  to  the  elbow,  with  the  peculiar  lappet  to  the  sleeve  of  the  super-tunic, 
are  all  distinctive  marks  of  the  European  costume  of  the  early  part  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
and  to  be  found  in  any  illuminated  French  or  English  MS.  of  the  time  of  our  Edward  II., 
1307-27,  and  still  earlier,  of  course,  in  Italy,  from  whence  the  fashions  travelled  northward, 
through  Paris  to  London. 

The  coverings  for  the  head  were,  at  this  time,  besides  the  capuchon,  or  cowl  here  seen,  caps 
and  hats  of  various  fantastic  shapes,  and  the  chaperon,  or  turban-shaped  hood,  began  to  make  its 
appearance  (vide  second  male  figure  in  the  engraving  after  Giotto).  No  plumes,  however,  adorned 
them  till  near  the  close  of  the  century,  when  a  single  feather,  generally  ostrich,  appears  placed 
upright  in  front  of  the  cap,  or  chaperon.  The  hose  were  richly  fretted  and  embroidered  with  gold, 
and  the  toes  of  the  shoes  long  and  pointed. 

The  female  costume  of  the  same  period  consisted  of  a  robe,  or  super-tunic,  flowing  in  graceful 
folds  to  the  feet,  coming  high  up  in  the  neck,  where  it  was  sometimes  met  by  the  wimple,  or 
gorget,  of  white  linen,  giving  a  nun-like  appearance  to  the  wearer ;  the  sleeves  terminating  at 
the  elbow,  in  short  lappets,  like  those  of  the  men,  and  shewing  the  sleeve  of  the  under-garment 
(the  kirtle,  which  fitted  the  body  tightly),  buttoned  from  the  wrist  to  the  elbow  also,  as  in  the 
male  costume. 

The  hair  was  gathered  up  into  a  sort  of  club  behind,  braided  in  front,  and  covered,  wholly  or 
partially,  with  a  caul  of  golden  net-work.  Garlands  of  flowers,  natural,  or  imitated  in  gold- 
smiths' work,  and  plain  filets  of  gold,  or  even  ribbon,  were  worn  by  very  young  females.  We 
shall  say  no  more  respecting  the  costume  of  this  play,  as  the  introduction  of  such  a  masquerade 
as  is  indispensable  to  the  plot,  would  be  inconsistent  with  the  dressing  of  the  other  characters 
correctly.  Artists  of  every  description  are,  in  our  opinion,  perfectly  justified  in  clothing  the 
dramatis  personse  of  this  tragedy  in  the  habits  of  the  time  in  which  it  was  written,  by  which  means 
all  serious  anachronisms  would  be  avoided. 


11 


PROLOGUE. 


Two  households,  both  alike  in  dignity, 

In  fair  Verona,  where  we  lay  our  scene, 
From  ancient  grudge  break  to  new  mutiny, 

Where  civil  blood  makes  civil  hands  unclean. 
From  forth  the  fatal  loins  of  these  two  foes 

A  pair  of  star-cross'd  lovers  take  their  life ; 
Whose  misadventur'd  piteous  overthrows 

Do,  with  their  death,  bury  their  parents*  strife. 


The  fearful  passage  of  their  death-mark'd  love, 

And  the  continuance  of  their  parents'  rage, 
Which,  but  their  children's  end,  nought  could 
remove. 
Is  now  the  two  hours'  traffic  of  our  stage ; 
The  which  if  you  with  patient  ears  attend, 
What  here  shall  miss,  our  toil  shall  strive  to 
mend. 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— A  Public  Place, 


Enter  Sampson  and  Gregory,  armed  with 
swords  and  bucklers. 

Sam.  Gregory,  o'my  word,  we'll  not  carry 
coals.* 

Gre.  No,  for  then  we  should  be  colliers. 

Sam.  I  mean,  if  we  be  in  choler,  we  '11  draw. 

Crre.  Ay,  while  you  live,  draw  your  neck  out 
of  the  collar. 

Sam.  I  strike  quickly,  being  moved. 

Ch-e.  But  thou  art  not  quickly  moved  to  strike. 

Sam.  A  dog  of  the  house  of  Montague  moves 
me. 

Gre.  To  move  is  to  stir ;  and  to  be  valiant, 


is  to  stand ;'  therefore,  if  thou  art  mov'd,  thou 
run'st  away. 

Sam.  A  dog  of  that  house  shall  move  me  to 
stand :  I  will  take  the  wall  of  any  man  or  maid 
of  Montague's. 

Gre.  That  shews  thee  a  weak  slave ;  for  the 
weakest  goes  to  the  wall. 

Sam.  True  ;  and  therefore  women,  being  the 
weaker  vessels,  are  ever  thrust  to  the  wall : — 
therefore  I  will  push  Montague's  men  from  the 
wall,  and  thrust  his  maids  to  the  wall. 

Gre.  The  quarrel  is  between  our  masters, 
and  us  their  men. 

»  The  first  quarto  of  1597,  which  we  mark  as  (A),  "  Stand 
to  it." 

13 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  I, 


Sam.  'Tisall  one,  I  will  shew  myself  atyrant : 
when  I  have  fought  with  the  men,  I  will  be 
civil  *  with  the  maids,  and  cut  off  their  heads. 

Gre.  The  heads  of  the  maids  ? 

Sam.  Ay,  the  heads  of  the  maids,  or  their 
maidenheads  ;  take  it  in  what  sense  thou  wilt. 

Gre.  They  must  take  it  sense,  ••  that  feel  it. 

Sam.  Me  they  shall  feel,  while  I  am  able  to 
stand:  and  'tis  known  I  am  a  pretty  piece  of 
flesh. 

Gre.  'T  is  well,  thou  art  not  fish ;  if  thou 
hadst,  thou  hadst  been  poor  John.^  Draw  thy 
tool ;  here  comes'*  of  the  house  of  the  Monta- 
gues.'^ 

Enter  Abram  and  Balthasar. 

Sam.  My  naked  weapon  is  out ;  quarrel,  I 
will  back  thee. 

Gre.  How  ?  turn  thy  back,  and  run  ? 

Sam.  Fear  me  not. 

Gre.  No,  marry  :  I  fear  thee ! 

Sam.  Let  us  take  the  law  of  our  sides ;  let 
them  begin. 

Gre.  I  will  frown,  as  I  pass  by  ;  and  let  them 
take  it  as  they  list. 

Sam.  Nay,  as  they  dare.  I  will  bite  my 
thumb  at  them  f  which  is  a  disgrace  to  them,  if 
they  bear  it. 

Abr.  Do  you  bite  your  thumb  at  us,  sir? 

Sam.  I  do  bite  my  thumb,  sir. 

Abr,  Do  you  bite  your  thumb  at  us,  sir  ? 

Sam.  Is  the  law  of  our  side,  if  I  say — ay  ? 

Ch-e.  No. 

Sam.  No,  sir,  I  do  not  bite  my  thumb  at 
you,  sir;  but  I  bite  my  thumb,  sir. 

Crre.  Do  you  quarrel,  sir  ? 

Abr.  Quarrel,  sir  ?  no,  sir. 

Sam.  If  you  do,  sir,  I  am  for  you ;  I  serve 
as  good  a  man  as  you. 

Abr.  No  better. 

Sam.  "Well,  sir. 

Enter  Benvolio,  at  a  distance. 

Ch-e.  Say — better;  here  comes  one  of  my 
master's  kinsmen. 

Sam.  Yes,  better. 

Abr.  You  lie. 

Sam.  Draw,  if  you  be  men. — Gregory,  re- 
member thy  swashing  blow."  [^Theyjight. 

Ben.  Part,  fools ;  put  up  your  swords ;  you 
know  not  what  you  do. 

\^Beats  down  their  swords. 

»  The  undated  quarto,  which  we  mark  as  (D),  cruel. 

^  {A),  In  sense. 

'  Poor  John.    Hake,  dried  and  salted. 

^  {A),  two  of  the  house. 

14 


Enter  Tybalt, 

Tyb.  What,  art  thou  drawn  among  these 
heartless  hinds  ? 
Turn  thee,  Benvolio,  look  upon  thy  death. 
Ben.  I  do  but  keep  the  peace;  put  up  thy 
sword. 
Or  manage  it  to  part  these  men  with  me. 
Tyb.  What,  draw,^  and  talk  of  peace?  I 
hate  the  word, 
As  I  hate  hell,  all  Montagues,  and  thee : 
Have  at  thee,  coward.  [They fight. 

Enter  several  partizans  of  both  houses,  who 
Join  the  fray ;  then  enter  Citizens,  with  clubs. 
1  at.  Clubs,  bUls,  and  partizans!*  strike! 
beat  them  down ! 
Down  with  the  Capulets !  down  with  the  Mon- 
tagues ! 

EnterCKWJSET,  inhisgown;  and  Lady  Cavulet, 
Cap.  What  noise  is  this  ? — Give  me  my  long 

sword,  ho ! 
La.  Cap.  A  crutch,  a  crutch! — Why  call 

you  for  a  sword  ? 
Cap.  My  sword,  I  say ! — Old  Montague  is 
come, 
And  flourishes  his  blade  in  spite  of  me. 

Enter  Montague  and  Lady  Montague. 
Mon.  Thou  villain  Capulet, — Hold  me  not, 

let  me  go. 
La.  Mon.  Thou  shalt  not  stir  a  foof"  to  seek 

a  foe. 

Enter  Prince,  with  Attendants. 
Prin.  Rebellious  subjects,  enemies  to  peace, 
Profaners  of  this  neighbour-stained  steel, — 
Will  they  not  hear  ? — what  ho !  you  men,  you 

beasts, — 
That  quench  the  fire  of  your  pernicious  rage 
With  purple  fountains  issuing  from  your  veins ! 
On  pain  of  torture,  from  those  bloody  hands 
Throw  yourmistemper'd  weapons  to  the  ground, 
And  hear  the  sentence  of  your  moved  prince. 
Three  civil  broils,''  bred  of  an  airy  word. 
By  thee,  old  Capulet,  and  Montague, 
Have  thrice  disturb' d  the  quiet  of  our  streets ; 
And  made  Verona's  ancient  citizens 
Cast  by  their  grave  beseeming  ornaments, 
To  wield  old  partizans,  in  hands  as  old. 
Canker' d  with  peace,  to  part  your  canker'd 

hate: 
If  ever  you  disturb  our  streets  again, 
Your  lives  shall  pay  the  forfeit  of  the  peace. 

»  The  quarto  of  1609,  which  we  mark  as  (C),  drawn, 
^  (C),  one  foot.  "^  (C),  brawls. 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  I. 


For  this  time,  all  the  rest  depart  away : 
You,  Capulet,  shall  go  along  with  me ; 
And,  Montague,  come  you  this  afternoon. 
To  know  our  farther*  pleasure  in  this  case, 
To  old  Free-town,  our  common  judgment-place. 
Once  more,  on  pain  of  death,  all  men  depart. 
lExeunt  Prince  and  Attendants;  Capulet, 
Lady  Capulet,  Tybalt,  Citizens,  and 
Servants. 

Mon.  "Who  set  this    ancient  quarrel  new 
abroach? — 
Speak,  nephew,  were  you  by,  when  it  began? 

Ben.  Here  were  the  servants  of  your  adver- 
sary, 
And  yours,  close  fighting  ere  I  did  approach : 
I  drew  to  part  them ;  in  the  instant  came 
The  fiery  Tybalt,  with  his  sword  prepar'd; 
Which,  as  he  breath'd  defiance  to  my  ears. 
He  swung  about  his  head,  and  cut  the  winds. 
Who,  nothing  hurt  withal,  hiss'd  him  in  scorn : 
While  we  were  interchanging  thrusts  and  blows. 
Came  more  and  more,  and  fought  on  part  and 

part. 
Tin  the  prince  came,  who  parted  either  part. 

La.  Mon.  O,  where  is  Romeo? — saw  you 
him  to-day  ? 
Right  glad  am  I,*"  he  was  not  at  this  fray. 

Ben.  Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd 
sun 
Peer'd  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east, 
A  troubled  mind  drave  me  to  walk  abroad ; 
Where,  underneath  the  grove  of  sycamore,^ 
That  westward  rooteth  from  this  city's  side, 
So  early  walking  did  I  see  your  son : 
Towards  him  I  made ;  but  he  was  'ware  of  me, 
And  stole  into  the  covert  of  the  wood  : 
I,  measuring  his  affections  by  my  own, — 
That  most  are  busied  when  they  are  most 

alone, — "^ 
Pursued  my  humour,  not  pursuing  his. 
And  gladly  shunn'd  who  gladly  fled  from  me. 

Mon.  Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been 
seen. 
With  tears  augmenting  the  fresh  morning's  dew, 
Adding  to  clouds  more  clouds  with  his  deep  sighs : 
But  all  so  soon  as  the  all-cheering  sun 
Should  in  the  farthest  east  begin  to  draw 
The  shady  curtains  from  Aurora's  bed, 
Away  from  light  steals  home  my  heavy  son, 
And  private  in  his  chamber  pens  himself; 

»  So  (^).    The  folio  and  (C),/atter's.  ^  (,A),  I  am. 

"  So  {A).    The  folio  and  (C)  have 

"  By  my  own. 
Which  then  most  sought,  where  most  might  not  be  found. 
Being  one  too  many  by  my  weary  self, 
Pursued  my  humour." 

The  restoration  of  the  first  reading  is  clearly  an  improvement. 


Shuts  up  his  windows,  locks  fair  daylight  out, 
And  makes  himself  an  artificial  night :» 
Black  and  portentous  must  this  humour  prove. 
Unless  good  counsel  may  the  cause  remove. 
Ben.  My  noble  uncle,  do  you  know  the  cause  ? 
Mon.  I  neither  know  it,  nor  can  learn  of  him. 
Ben.  Have   you    importun'd   him   by  any 

means? 
Mon.  Both  by  myself,   and  many  others, 
friends : 
But  he,  his  own  affections'  counsellor, 
Is  to  himself — I  wiU  not  say,  how  true — 
But  to  himself  so  secret  and  so  close, 
So  far  from  sounding  and  discovery, 
As  is  the  bud  bit  with  an  envious  worm. 
Ere  he  can  spread  his  sweet  leaves  to  the  air, 
Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun.** 
Could  we  but  learn  from  whence  his  sorrows 

grow, 
We  would  as  willingly  give  cure,  as  know. 
Enter  Romeo,  at  a  distance. 
Ben.  See,  where  he  comes :  So  please  you, 
step  aside ; 
I  '11  know  liis  grievance,  or  be  much  denied. 

Mon.  1  would  thou  wert  so  happy  by  thy  stay, 
To  hear  true  shrift. — Come,  madam,  let's  away! 
[Exeunt  Montague  and  Lady. 
Ben.  Good  morrow,  cousin. 
Bom.  Is  the  day  so  young  ? 

Ben.  But  new  struck  nine. 
Bom.  Ah  me !  sad  hours  seem  long. 

Was  that  my  father  that  went  hence  so  fast? 
Ben,  It  was  : — What  sadness  lengthens  Ro- 
meo's hours? 
Bom.  Not  having  that,  which,  having,  makes 

them  short. 
Ben.  In  love? 
Bom.  Out — 
Ben.  Of  love? 

Bom.  Out  of  her  favour,  where  I  am  in  love. 

Ben.  Alas,  that  love,  so  gentle  in  his  view, 

Should  be  so  tyrannous  and  rough  in  proof! 

Bom.  Alas,  that  love,  whose  view  is  muflled 

still. 

Should,  without  eyes,  see  pathways  to  his  will ! 

Where  shall  we  dine? — O  me! — What  fray 

was  here  ? 
Yet  tell  me  not,  for  I  have  heard  it  all. 
Here 's  much  to  do  wfth  hate,  but  more  with 
love : — 

^  The  first  ten  beautiful  lines  of  Montague's  speech  are 
not  in  the  original  quarto ;  neither  is  Beuvolio's  question, 
"  Have  you  importun'd  him  ?"  nor  the  answer.  We  find 
them  in  (B),  the  quarto  of  1 599. 

•>  The  folio  and  (C)  read  Sfljrec.  Theobald  gave  us  swn  y  and 
we  could  scarcely  wish  to  restore  the  old  reading,  even  if  the 
probability  of  a  typographical  error,  satne  for  sunne,  were  not 
so  obvious. 

15 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  11. 


Why  then,  O  brawling  love !  O  loving  hate !  ? 
O  any  thing,  of  nothing  first  created !  * 
O  heavy  lightness !  serious  vanity ! 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms ! 
Feather  of  lead,  bright  smoke,  cold  fire,  sick 

health ! 
Still- waking  sleep,  that  is  not  what  it  is  ! — 
This  love  feel  I,  that  feel  no  love  in  this. 
Dost  thou  not  laugh  ? 

Ben.  No,  coz,  I  rather  weep. 

Rom.  Good  heart,  at  what  ? 

Ben.  At  thy  good  heart's  oppression. 

Rom.  Why,  such  is  love's  transgression. — 
Griefs  of  mine  own  lie  heavy  in  my  breast ; 
Which  thou  wilt  propagate,  to  have  it  prest 
With  more  of  thine  :  this  love,  that  thou  hast 

shewn, 
Doth  add  more  grief  to  too  much  of  mine  own. 
Love  is  a  smoke  made  ^  with  the  fume  of  sighs ; 
Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes ; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  loving'  tears : 
What  is  it  else  ?  a  madness  most  discreet, 
A  choking  gall,  and  a  preserving  sweet. 
Farewell,  my  coz.  [  Going. 

Ben.  Soft,  I  will  go  along ; 

An  if  you  leave  me  so,  you  do  me  wrong. 

Rom.  Tut,  I  have  lost  myself;  I  am  not  here ; 
This  is  not  Romeo,  he  's  some  other  where, 

Ben.  Tell  me  in  sadness, who  is  thaf^you  love. 

Rom.  What,  shall  I  groan,  and  tell  thee  ? 

Ben.  Groan  ?  why,  no ; 

But  sadly  tell  me,  who. 

Rom.  Bid  a  sick  man  in  sadness  make  his 
will : — 
Ah,  word  ill  urg'd  to  one  that  is  so  ill ! — 
In  sadness,  cousin,  I  do  love  a  woman. 

Ben.  I  aim'd  so  near,  when  I  suppos'd  you 
lov'd. 

Rom.  A  right  good  mark's-man ! — And  she 's 
fair  I  love. 

Ben.  A  right  fair  mark,  fair  coz,  is  soonest  hit. 

Rom.  Well,  in  that  hit,  you  miss :  she  '11  not 
be  hit 
With  Cupid's  arrow,  she  hath  Dian's  wit ; 
And,  in  strong  proof  of  chastity  well  arm'd, 
From  love's  weak  childish  bow  she  lives  un- 

harm'd.*' 
She  will  not  stay  the  siege  of  loving  terms, 
Nor  bide  the  encounter  of  assailing  eyes, 
Nor  open  her  lap  to  saint-seducing  gold : 

*  (A),  create.  The  modern  editors  have  adopted  this : 
but  it  introduces,  improperly,  a  couplet  amidst  the  blank 
verse. 

•>  {A),  raised.  "^  (A),  raging  with  a  lover's  tears. 

d  (A),  who?n  she  is. 

'  So  (A).  The  folio  and  (C),  "A  sick  man  in  sadness  makes." 

f  So  (,A).    The  folio  and  (,€),  uncharm'd. 

16 


O,  she  is  rich  in  beauty ;  only  poor. 

That,  when  she  dies,  with  beauty  dies  her  store." 

Ben.  Then  she  hath  sworn,  that  she  will  still 
live  chaste  ? 

Rom.  She  hath,  and  in  that  sparing  makes 
huge  waste ; 
For  beauty,  starv'd  with  her  severity. 
Cuts  beauty  off  from  all  posterity. 
She  is  too  fair,  too  wise,  wisely  too  fair, 
To  merit  bliss  by  making  me  despair  : 
She  hath  forsworn  to  love ;  and,  in  that  vow, 
Do  I  live  dead,  that  live  to  tell  it  now. 

Ben.  Be  rul'd  by  me,  forget  to  think  of  her. 

Rom.  O  teach  me  how  I  should  forget  to 
think. 

Ben.  By  giving  liberty  unto  thine  eyes ; 
Examine  other  beauties. 

Rom.  'Tis  the  way 

To  call  hers,  exquisite,  in  question  more  : 
These  happy  masks,  that  kiss  fair  ladies'  brows. 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the  fair ;  * 
He  that  is  strucken  blind,  cannot  forget 
The  precious  treasure  of  his  eyesight  lost : 
Shew  me  a  mistress  that  is  passing  fair, 
What  doth  her  beauty  serve,  but  as  a  note 
Where  I  may  read,  who  pass'd  that  passing  fair? 
Farewell :  thou  canst  not  teach  me  to  forget. 

Ben.  I  '11  pay  that  doctrine,  or  else  die  in  debt. 

l^Exeunt. 
SCENE  11.—^  Street. 
Enter  Cai'TJlet,  Paris,  and  Servant. 

Cap.  And*"  Montague  is  bound  as  well  as  I, 
In  penalty  alike ;  and  't  is  not  hard,  I  think. 
For  men  so  old  as  we  to  keep  the  peace. 

Par.  Of  honourable  reckoning  are  you  both ; 
And  pity  't  is,  you  liv'd  at  odds  so  long. 
But  now,  my  lord,  what  say  you  to  my  suit? 

Cap.  But  saying  o'er  what  I  have  said  before  : 
My  child  is  yet  a  stranger  in  the  world, 
She  hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years ; 
Let  two  more  summers  wither  in  their  pride. 
Ere  we  may  think  her  ripe  to  be  a  bride. 

Par.  Younger  than  she  are  happy  mothers 
made. 

Cap.  And  too  soon  marr'd  are  those  so  early 
made. 
Earth  hath  swallow'd  all  my  hopes  but  she, 
She  is  the  hopeful  lady  of  my  earth :' 

»  The  scene  ends  here  in  (A) ;  and  the  first  three  lines  in 
the  next  scene  are  also  wanting.     {B)  has  tliem. 

b  So  ID).    The  folio  omits  And. 

<^  Ladi/  of  my  earth.  Fille  de  terre,  being  the  French 
phrase  for  an  heiress,  Steevens  thinks  that  Capulet  speaks 
of  Juliet  in  this  sense;  but  Shakspere  uses  earth  for  the 
mortal  part,  as  in  the  146th  Sonnet: — 

"  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth," 
and  in  this  play, 

" Turn  back,  dull  earth." 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  II. 


But  WOO  her  gentle  Paris,  get  her  heart, 
My  will  to  her  consent'  is  but  a  part ; 
An  she  agree,  within  her  scope  of  choice 
Lies  my  consent  and  fair  according  voice. 
This  night  I  hold  an  old  accustom'd  feast," 
Whereto  I  have  invited  many  a  guest, 
Such  as  I  love ;  and  you,  among  the  store. 
One  more,  most  welcome,  makes  my  number 

more. 
At  my  poor  house,  look  to  behold  this  night 
Earth-treading  stars, ''  that  make  dark  heaven 

light: 
Such  comfort,  as  do  lusty  young  men  feel 
When  well  apparell'd  April  on  the  heel 
Of  limping  winter  treads,'"  even  such  delight 
Among  fresh  female  buds  shall  you  this  night 
Inherit  at  my  house  ;  hear  all,  all  see, 
And  like  her  most,  whose  merit  most  shall  be : 
Which  on  more''  view  of  many,  mine,  being 

one, 
May  stand  in  number,  though  in  reckoning  none. 
Come,  go  with  me ; — (io,  sirrah,  trudge  about 
Through  fair  Verona ;  find  those  persons  out. 
Whose  names  are  written  there,  [^(jives  a  paper.^ 

and  to  them  say. 
My  house  and  welcome  on  their  pleasure  stay. 
[£Jzeunt  Capulet  and  Pauis. 
Serv.  Find  them  out,  whose  names  are  written 
here  ?  It  is  written — that  the  shoemaker  should 
meddle  with  his  yard,  and  the  tailor  with  his 
last,  the  fisher  with  his  pencil,  and  the  painter 
with  his  nets;  but  I  am  sent  to  find  those  per- 
sons, whose  names  are  writ,  and  can  never  find 
what  names  the  writing  person  hath  here  writ. 
I  must  to  the  learned  : — In  good  time. 

Enter  Benvolio  and  Romeo. 

lien.  Tut,  man !  one  fire  burns  out  another's 
burning. 

One  pain  is  lessen'd  by  another's  anguish  ; 
Turn  giddy, and  be  holp  by  backward  turning; 

One  desj)erate  grief  cures  with  another's  lan- 
guish: 


•  My  wiU  to  her  consent.     In  proportion  to,  or  with  refer- 
ence to,  her  consent. 

^  Earth-treading  stars,  Sgc.     Warburlon   calls    this    line 
nonsense,  and  would  read, 

"  Earth-treading  stars  that  make  dark  even  light." 
Monck  Mason  would  read, 

"  Earth-treading  stars  that  make  dark,  heaven's  lipht," 
that  is,  stars  that  make  the  light  of  heaven  appear  dark  in 
comparison  with  them.  It  appears  to  us  unnecessary  to 
alter  the  original  reading,  and  espt^cially  as  passages  in  the 
masquerade  scene  would  seem  to  indicate  that  the  banquet- 
ting  room  opened  into  a  garden— as, 

"  Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  <if  night." 

'  So  the  folio  and  (C),  with  the  exception  of  one  for  on. 
(A),  Such,  amtmgst  view  of  many. 

Tracedies. — Vol.  I.  1) 


Take  thou  some  new  infection  to  the  cj^e, 
And  the  rank  poison  of  the  old  will  die. 

Rom.  Your  plantain  leaf  is    excellent    for 

that.'' 
Ben.  For  what,  I  pray  thee  ? 
Horn.  For  your  broken  shin. 

Ben.  Why,  Romeo,  art  thou  mad  ? 
Rom.  Not   mad,   but  bound   more  than   a 
madman  is : 
Shut  up  in  prison,  kept  without  my  food, 
Whipp'd,  and  tormented,  and — Good-e'en,good 
fellow. 
Serv.  God  gi*  good  e'en. — I  pray,  sir,  can 

you  read  ? 
Rom.  Ay,  mine  own  fortune  in  my  misery. 
Serv.  Perhaps  you  have  learn'd  it  without 
book: 
But  I  pray,  can  you  read  any  thing  you  see  ? 
Rom.  Ay,  if  I  know  the  letters,  and  the  lan- 
guage. 
Serv.  Ye  say  honestly  ;  Rest  you  merry ! 
Rom.  Stay,  fellow:  I  can  read.         [Reads. 
Signor  Martino,  and  his  wife  and  daugliler  ; 
Count}/  Anselme,  and  his  beauteous  sisters ;  the 
lady  widow  «/"  Vitruvio  ;  Sigimr  Placentio,  and 
his  lovely  nieces;   Mercutio,  and  his  brother 
Valentine  ;  Mine  uncle  Capulet,  his  wife,  and 
daughters ;    My  fair  niece  Rosaline  ;    Livia ; 
Signor  Valentio,  and  his  cousin  Tybalt ;  Lucio, 
and  the  lively  Helena, 

A  fair  assembly ;  [gives  back  the  note.']  Whither 
should  they  come? 
Serv.  Up. 

Rom.  Whither  to  supper?* 
Serv.  To  our  house. 
Rom.  Whose  house  ? 
Serv.  My  master's. 
Rom.  Indeed,  I  should  have  ask'd  you  that 

before. 
Serv.  Now  I'll  tell  you  without  asking :  My 
master  is  the  great  rich  Capulet;  and  if  you  be 
not  of  the  house  of  Montagues,  I  pray,  come 
and  crush  a  cup  of  wine.     Rest  you  merry. 

[Kxit. 
Ben.  At  this  same  ancient  feast  of  Capulet's 
Sups  the  fair  Rosaline,  whom  thou  so  lov'st; 
With  all  the  admired  beauties  of  Verona: 
Go  thither;  and,  with  unattainted  eye, 
Compare  her  face  with  some  that  I  shall  shew. 
And  I  will  make  thee  think  thy  swan  a  crow. 
Rom.  When  the  devout  religion  of  mine  eye 
Mainttiins  such  falsehood,  then  turn  tears  to 
fires! 


"  So  all  the  early  editions, 
to  the  servant. 


'ITieobald  gives  "  To  supper'' 

17 


Act  1.3 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  111. 


And  these, — who,  often  (Irown'd,  could  never 
die, — 

Transparent  heretics,  be  burnt  for  liars ! 
One  faii-er  than  my  love  !  the  all-seeing  sun 
Ne'er  saw  her  match,  since  first  the  world  begun. 

Ben.  Tut!  you  saw  her  fan-,  none  else  being 

by, 

Herself  pois'd  with  herself  in  either  eye : 
But  in  that  crystal  scales,"  let  there  be  weigh'd 
Your  lady's  love  against  some  other  maid 
That  I  will  shew  you,  shining  at  this  feast. 
And  she  shall  scant  shew  well,  that  now  shews 
best. 
Rom.  I  '11  go  along,  no  such  sight  to  be  shewn, 
But  to  rejoice  in  splendour  of  mine  own. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— -4  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 
Enter  Lady  Capxtlet  and  Ntjbsb. 
La.  Cap.  Nurse,  where 's  my  daughter  ?  call 

her  forth  to  me. 
Nurse.  Now,  by  my  maidenhead, — at  twelve 
year  old, — 
I  bade  her  come. — What,  lamb !  what,  lady- 
bird !— 
God  forbid! — where 's  this  girl? — what,  Juliet! 

Enter  Juliet. 

Jul.  How  now,  who  calls? 

Nurse.  Your  mother. 

Jul.  Madam,  I  am  here. 

What  is  your  will  ? 

La.  Cap.  This  is  the  matter: — Nurse,  give 
leave  awhile. 
We  must  talk  in  secret. — Nurse,  come  back 

again  ; 
I  have  remember'd  me,  thou  shalt  hear  our 

counsel. 
Thou  know'st,  my  daughter 's  of  a  pretty  age. 

Nurse.  'Faith,  I  can  tell  her  age  unto  an  hour. 

La.  Cap.  She  's  not  fourteen. 

Nurse.  I  '11  lay  fourteen  of  my  teeth, 

And  yet,  to  my  teen*"  be  it  spoken,  I  have  but 

four,  — 
She  is  not  fourteen. — How  long  is  it  now 
To  Lammas-tide  ? 

La.  Cap.  A  fortnight  and  odd  days. 

Nurse.  ^  Even  or  odd,  of  all  days  in  the  year, 
Come  Lammas-eve  at  night,  shall  she  be  fourteen . 
Susan  and  she, — God  rest  all  Christian  souls ! — 

'  Scales — used  as'a  singular  noun. 

b  Teen.    Sorrow. 

■^  The  speeches  of  the  Nurse,  from  hence,  are  given  as 
prose  in  all  the  early  editions.  Capell  had'the  great  merit  of 
first  printing  them  as  verse ;  and  not  '  erroneously,'  as  Boswell 
appears  to  think,  for  there  is  not  in  all  Shakspere  a  passage  in 
which  the  rhythm  is  more  happily  characteristic. 

18 


Were  of  an  age. — Well,  Susan  is  with  God ; 
She  was  too  good  for  me  :  But,  as  I  said, 
On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen ; 
That  shall  she,  marry ;  I  remember  it  well. 
'T  is  since  the  earthquake  now  eleven  years  ;  '^ 
And  she  was  wean'd, — I  never  shall  forget  it, — 
Of  all  the  days  of  the  year,  upon  that  day : 
For  I  had  then  laid  wormwood  to  my  dug, 
Sitting  in  the  sun  under  the  dove-house  wall, 
My  lord  and  you  were  then  at  Mantua  : — 
Nay,  I  do  bear  a  brain  :^ — but,  as  I  said. 
When  it  did  taste  the  wormwood  on  the  nipple 
Of  my  dug,  and  felt  it  bitter,  pretty  fool ! 
To  see  it  tetchy,  and  fall  out  with  the  dug. 
Shake,  quote  the  dove-house :  't  was  no  need,  I 

trow, 
To  bid  me  trudge. 

And  since  that  time  it  is  eleven  years  : 
For  then  she  could  stand  alone ;  nay,  by  the 

rood. 
She  could  have  run  and  waddled  all  about. 
For  even  the  day  before,  she  broke  her  brow : 
And  then  my  husband — God  be  with  his  soul! 
'A  was  a  merry  man  ! — took  up  the  child  : 
Yea,  quoth  he,  dost  thou  fall  upon  thy  face  ? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward,  when  thou  hast  more 

wit; 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule?  and,  by  my  holy  dam. 
The  pretty  wretch  left  crying,  and  said — Ay: 
To  see  now,  how  a  jest  shall  come  about ! 
I  warrant,  an  I  should  live  a  thousand  years, 
I  never  should  forget  it ;  Wilt  thou  not,  Jule  ? 

quoth  he : 
And,  pretty  fool,  it  stinted, ''  and  said — Ay. 
La.  Cap.  Enough  of  this ;  I  pray  thee,  hold 

thy  peace. 
Nurse.  Yes,  madam;  yet  I  cannot  choose 
but  laugh, 
To  think  it  should  leave  crying,  and  say — Ay: 
And  yet,  I  warrant,  it  had  upon  its  brow 
A  bump  as  big  as  a  young  cockrel's  stone ; 
A  parlous*^  knock;  and  it  cried  bitterly. 
Yea,  quoth  my  husband,  fall'st  upon  thy  face  ? 
Thou  wilt  fall  backward,  when  thou  com'st  to 

age; 
Wilt  thou  not,  Jule?  it  stinted,  and  said — Ay. 

»  Bear  a  brain.     Have  a  memory — a  common  expression, 
b  It  stinted.     It  stopped.    Thus  (iascoigne, — 

"  Then  stinted  she  as  if  her  song  were  done." 
To  stmt  is  used  in  an  active  sigiiification  for  to  stop.    Thus 
in  those  tine  linos  in  Titus  Andronicus,  which  it  is  diflficult  to 
believe  any  other  than  Shakspere  wrote, 
"  The  eagle  suffers  little  birds  to  sing. 

And  is  not  careful  what  they  mean  thereby. 
Knowing  that  with  the  shadow  of  his  wing 
He  can  at  pleasure  stint  their  melody." 
What  a  picture  of  a  despot  in  his  intervals  of  self-satisfying 
forbearance! 

<^  Parlozis.  A  corruption  of  the  word  perilous,  which  word 
is  given  in  the  folio.  The  parlous  of  the  earlier  copies  is 
more  in  the  Nurse's  manner. 


Act  1.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


Jul.  And  stint  thou  too,  I  pray  thee,  nurse, 
say  I. 

Nurse.  Peace,  I  have  done.    God  mark  thee 
to  his  grace! 
Thou  wast  the  prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nurs'd  : 
An  I  might  live  to  see  thee  married  once, 
I  have  my  wish. 

La.  Cap.  Marry,  that  marry  is  the  very  theme 
I  came  to  talk  of: — Tell  me,  daughter  Juliet, 
How  stands  your  disposition  to  be  married  ? 

Jul.  It  is  an  honour  that  I  dream  not  of. 

Nurse.  An  honour  !*  were  not  I  thine  only 
nurse, 
I  'd  say,  thou  hadst  suck'd  wisdom  from  thy  teat. 

La.   Cap.  Well,  think  of  marriage    now; 
younger  than  you. 
Here  in  Verona,  ladies  of  esteem, 
Are  made  already  mothers :  by  my  count, 
I  was  a  mother  much  upon  these  years 
That  you  are  now  a  maid.  Thus,  then,  in  brief; — 
The  valiant  Paris  seeks  you  for  his  love. 

Nurse.  A  man,  young  lady !  lady,  such  a  man, 
As  all  the  world — Why,  he's  a  man  of  wax. 

La.  Cap.  Verona's  summer  hath  not  such  a 
flower. 

Nurse.  Nay,  he 's  a  flower ;  in  faith,  a  very 
flower. 

La.  Cap.  ''What  say  you?  can  you  love  the 
gentleman  ? 
This  night  you  shall  behold  him  at  our  feast : 
Read  o'er  the  volume  of  young  Paris'  face,'^ 
And  find  delight  Avrit  there  with  beauty's  pen  ; 
Examine  every  several":  lineament. 
And  see  how  one  another  lends  content; 
And  what  obscur'd  in  this  fair  volume  lies. 
Find  written  in  the  margin  of  his  eyes. 
This  precious  book  of  love,  this  unbound  lover, 
To  beautify  him,  only  lacks  a  cover : 
The  fish  lives  in  the  sea ;  and  't  is  much  pride, 
For  fair  without  the  fair  within  to  hide : 
That  book  in  mauy's  eyes  doth  share  the  glory. 
That  in  gold  clasps  locks  in  the  golden  story ; 
So  shall  you  share  all  that  he  doth  possess. 
By  having  him,  making  yourself  no  less. 

Nurse.  No  less?  nay,  bigger;  women  grow 
by  men. 

La.  Cap.  Speakbriefly,  canyon  like  of  Paris' 
love  ? 

Jul.  I  '11  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move : 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye. 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it 

fly. 

*  So  {A).  The  folio  and  (C)  have  hmtr,  both  in  Juliet's  and 
the  Nurse's  speeches. 

*>  The  next  seventeen  lines  are  wanting  in  (A). 

'  (B)  married;  which  reading  has  been  adopted  by  Stee- 
vens  and  Malone,  in  preference  to  several,  in  the  folio  and  (Q. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Madam,  the  guests  are  come,  supper 
served  up,  you  called,  my  young  lady  asked 
for,  the  nurse  cursed  in  the  pantry,  and  every 
thing  in  extremity.  I  must  hence  to  wait ;  I 
beseech  you,  follow  straight. 

La.  Cap.  We  follow  thee. — Juliet,  the  county 

stays. 
Nurse.  Go,  girl,  seek  happy  nights  to  happy 
days.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Street. 

Enter  Romeo,  Mercutio,  Benvolio,  with  Five 
or  Six  Maskers,  Torch-Bearers,  and  others. 

Horn.  What,  shall  this  speech  be  spoke  for 
our  excuse  ? 
Or  shall  we  on  without  apology  ? 

Ben.  The  date  is  out  of  such  prolixity  : 
We'll  have  no  Cupid  hood-wink'dwith  a  scarf," 
Bearing  a  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath. 
Scaring  the  ladies  like  a  crow-keeper  ; 
Nor  no  without-book  prologue,  faintly  spoke 
After  the  prompter,  for  our  entrance :  * 
But,  let  them  measure  us  by  what  they  will. 
We  '11  measure  them  a  measure, ^^  and  be  gone. 
Rom.  Give  me  a  torch,!'' — I  am  not  for  this 
ambling ; 
Being  but  heavy  I  will  bear  the  light. 
Mer.  Nay,  gentle  Romeo,  we  must  have  you 

dance. 
Rom.  Not  I,  believe  me :  you  have  dancing 
shoes, 
With  nimble  soles :  I  have  a  soul  of  lead. 
So  stakes  me  to  the  ground  I  cannot  move. 

Mer.  You  are  a  lover ;  borrow  Cupid's  wings. 
And  soar  with  them  above  a  common  bound. 

Rom.  I  am  too  sore  enpierced  with  his  shaft, 
To  soar  with  his  light  feathers ;  and  to  bound — '» 
I  cannot  bound  a  pitch  above  dull  woe : 
Under  love's  heavy  burthen  do  I  sink. 
Mer.  And,  to  sink  in  it,  should  you  burthen 
love : 
Too  great  oppression  for  a  tender  thing. 

Rom.  Is  love  a  tender  thing?  it  is  too  rough. 

Too  rude,  tooboist'rous;  and  it  pricks  like  thorn. 

Mer.  If  love  be  rough  with  you,  be  rough 

with  love ; 

Prick  love  for  pricking,   and  you  beat  love 

down. — 
Give  me  a  case  to  put  my  visage  in  : 

[^Putting  on  a  mask. 


a  These  two  lines  in  (^A),  are  omitted  in  the  subsequent 
old  editions, 
b  To  bound,  in  folio;  so  bound,  in  (C). 

19 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


A  visor  for  a  visor! — what  care  I, 
What  curious  eye  doth  quote*  deformities? 
Here  are  the  beetle-brows  shall  blush  for  me. 
Ben.  Come,  knock,  and  enter ;  and  no  sooner 
in, 
But  every  man  betake  him  to  his  legs. 

Rom,  A  torch  for  me  :  let  wantons,  light  of 
heart. 
Tickle  the  senseless  rushes  with  their  heels  ;^' 
For  I  am  proverb'd  with  a  grandsire  phrase, — 
I  '11  be  a  candle-holder,  and  look  on, — 
The  game  was  ne'er  so  fair,  and  I  am  done. 
Mer.  Tut!  dun's  the  mouse,'*  the  constable's 
own  word: 
If  thou  art  dun,  we  '11  draw  thee  from  the  mire 
Of  this,    sir  reverence,'^  love,*"  wherein  thou 

stick' st 
Up  to  the  ears. — Come,  we  burn  day-light,  ho. 
Rom.  Nay,  that 's  not  so. 
Mer.  I  mean,  sir,  in  delay 

We  waste  our  lights  in  vain,  lights,  lights,  by 

day.^ 
Take  our  good  meaning;  for  our  judgment  sits 
Five  times  in  that,  ere  once  in  our  five  wits. 
Rom.  And  we  mean  well  in  going  to  this 
mask; 
But 't  is  no  wit  to  go. 

Mer.  Why,  may  one  ask  ? 

Rom.  I  dreamt  a  dream  to-night. 

Mer.  And  so  did  I. 

Rom.  Well,  what  was  yours  ? 

Mer.  That  dreamers  often  lie. 

Rom.  In  bed,  asleep,  wliile  they  do  dream 

things  true. 
Mer.  O,  then,  I  see,  queen  Mab  hath  been 
with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman,'^ 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomies'^ 
Athwart^  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep: 
Her  waggon- spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs, 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers ; 
Her  traces  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 
Her  collars  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams ; 
Her  whip  of  cricket's  bone ;  the  lash  of  film: 
Her  waggoner  a  small  grey-coated  gnat, 
Not  half  so  big  as  a  round  little  worm 
Prick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid  :^ 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut. 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 

»  Quote.     Observe.  b  Thus  {A). 

<=  {A),  like  lamps,  by  day.  <i  (A),  burgmnasler. 

°  \A),  atomy.        f  Thus  {A).  )C),  and  folio,  over. 
B  {A),  maid;  folio  and  (C),  »ja/2,— clearly  an  error  in  the 
latter. 

20 


Time  out  o'  mind  the  fairies'  coach-makers. 
And  in  this  state  she  gallops  night  by  night 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream 

of  love: 
On  courtiers'  knees,  that  dream  on  court'sies 

straight : 
O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on 

fees: 
O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream ; 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues, 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted 

are. 
Sometime  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose. 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit :  * 
And  sometime  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  as  'a  lies  asleep. 
Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice : 
Sometimes  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades. 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep  ;  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ears ;  at  which  he  starts,  and  wakes ; 
And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  aprayer  or  two, 
And  sleeps  again.     This  is  that  very  Mab 
That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night;  ™ 
And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hau-s, 
Which,  once  untangled,  much  misfortune  bodes. 
This  is  the  hag,  when  maids  lie  on  their  backs. 
That  presses  them,  and  learns  them  first  to  bear. 
Making  them  women  of  good  carriage. 
This  is  she '' 

*  A  suit.  A  court  solicitation  was  called  a  suit ; — a  process, 
a  suit  at  law. 

b  It  is  desirable  to  exhibit  the  first  draft  of  a  performance 
so  exquisitely  finished  as  this  celebrated  description,  in 
which  every  word  is  a  study.  And  yet  it  is  curious,  that  in 
the  quarto  of  1609,  and  in  the  folio  (from  which  we  print),  and 
in  both  of  which  the  corrections  of  the  author  are  apparent, 
the  whole  speech  is  jriven  as  if  it  were  prose.  The  original 
quarto  of  1597  gives  the  passage,  as  follows  : — 

"  Ah  then  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
She  is  the  fairies'  midwife,  and  doth  come 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate.stone 
On  the  forefinger  of  a  burgomaster. 
Drawn  with  a  team  of  little  atomy. 
Athwart  men's  noses  when  they  lie  asleep. 
Her  waggon  spokes  are  made  of  spinners'  webs. 
The  cover  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers. 
The  traces  are  the  moonshine  watery  beams. 
The  collars  cricket  bones,  the  lash  of  films. 
Her  waggoner  is  a  small  gray-coated  fly 
Not  half  so  big  as  is  a  little  worm, 
Pick'd  from  the  lazy  finger  of  a  maid. 
And  in  this  sort  she  gallops  up  and  down 
Through  lovers'  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love  ; 
O'er  courtiers'  knees,  who  straight  on  courtesies  dream; 
O'er  ladies'  lips  who  dream  on  kisses  straight, 
Which  oft  the  angry  Mab  with  blisters  plagues 
Because  their  breaths  with  sweetmeats  tainted  are. 
Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  lawyer's  lap. 
And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 
And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 
Tickling  a  parson's  nose  that  lies  asleep. 
And  then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice. 
Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  soldier's  nose. 
And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats. 
Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  countermines. 
Of  healths  five  fathom  deep,  and  then  anon 
Drums  in  his  ear,  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes, 


AOT  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


Rom.  Peace,  peace,  Mercutio,  peace, 

Thou  talk'st  of  nothing. 

Mer.  True,  I  talk  of  dreams, 

Which  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain, 
Begot  of  nothing  but  vain  fantasy ; 
Which  is  as  thin  of  substance  as  the  air  ; 
And  more  inconstant  than  the  wind  who  wooes 
Even  now  the  frozen  bosom  of  the  north. 
And,  being  anger'd,  puffs  away  from  thence, 
Turning  his  face*  to  the  dew-dropping  south. 

Ben.  This  wind,  you  talk  of,  blows  us  from 
ourselves ; 
Supper  is  done,  and  we  shall  come  too  late. 

Rom.  I  fear, too  early:  for  my  mind  misgives 
Some  consequence,  yet  hanging  in  the  stars, 
Shall  bitterly  begin  his  fearful  date 
With  this  night's  revels ;  and  expire  the  term 
Of  a  despised  life,  clos'd  in  my  breast, 
By  some  vile  forfeit  of  untimely  death : 
But  He,  that  hath  the  steerage  of  my  course. 
Direct  my  sail!'' — On,  lusty  gentlemen. 

Ben.  Strike,  drum.  \^Exeunt. 

SCENE  \,—A  Hall  in  Capulet's  House. 
Musicians  ivaiting.     Enter  Servants. 

1  Sei-v.  Where 's  Potpan,  that  he  helps  not 
to  take  away  ?  he  shift  a  trencher !  he  scrape 
a  trencher ! 

2  Serv.  When  good  manners  shall  lie  alF  in 
one  or  two  men's  hands,  and  they  unwashed 
too,  't  is  a  foul  thing. 

\  Sei'v.  Away  with  the  joint-stools,  remove 
tlie  court- cupboard,-'  look  to  the  plate: — good 
thou,  save  me  a  piece  of  marchpane  ;■'  and,  as 
thou  lovest  me,  let  the  porter  let  in  Susan 
Grindstone,  and  Nell. — Antony  !  and  Potpan ! 

2  Serv.  Ay,  boy ;  ready. 

1  Serv.  You  are  looked  for,  and  called  for, 
asked  for,  and  sought  for,  in  the  great  chamber. 

2  Serv.  We  cannot  be  here  and  there  too. — 
Cheerly,  boys ;  be  brisk  a  while,  and  the  longer 
liver  take  all.  {They  retire  behind. 

Enter  Capulet,  ^c.  with  the  Guests,  and  the 
Maskers. 
Cap.  Welcome,  gentlemen !  ladies  that  have 
their  toes 

And  swears  a  prayer  or  two,  and  sleeps  again  : 

This  is  that  Mab  that  makes  maids  lie  on  their  backs, 

And  proves  them  women  of  good  carriage. 

This  is  the  very  Mab, 

That  plaits  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night. 

And  plaits  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hair, 

Which  once  untangled  much  misfortune  breeds." 

•  Thus  (A).  (C),  and  the  folio  side. 

>■  Thus  [A).  (C),  and  the  folio,  suit. 

"  Thus  (C).  Folio  omits  all. 

'I  Marchpane.  A  kind  of  sweet  cake  or  biscuit,  some- 
times called  almond  cake.  Our  maccaroons  are  diminutive 
marchpanes. 


Unplagued  witli  corns,  will  have*  a  bout  with 

you  :— 
Ah  ha,  my  mistresses !  which  of  you  all 
Will   now  deny   to   dance  ?    she  that  makes 

dainty,  she, 
I  '11  swear,  hath  corns ;  Am  I  come  near  ye 

now? 
Welcome,  gentlemen  !  *'  I  have  seen  the  day, 
That  I  have  worn  a  visor  ;  and  could  tell 
A  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear, 
Such  as  would  please ; — 't  is  gone,  't  is  gone, 

't  is  gone  : 
You  are  welcome,  gentlemen! — Come,    mu- 
sicians, play. 
A  hall !  a  hall !   give  room,  and  foot  it,  girls. 

{Music  plays,  and  they  dance. 
More  light,  ye  knaves  ;  and  turn  the  tables  up. 
And  quench  the  fire,  the  room  is  grown  too 

hot.— 
Ah,  sirrah,  this  unlook'd-for  sport  comes  well. 
Nay,  sit,  nay,  sit,  good  cousin*^  Capulet ; 
For  you  and  I  are  past  our  dancing  days : 
How  long  is  't  now,  since  last  yourself  and  I 
Were  in  a  mask  ? 

2  Cap.  By'r  lady,  thirty  years. 

1  Cap.  What,  man !  't  is  not  so  much,  't  is  not 

so  much : 
'Tis  since  the  nuptial  of  Lucentio, 
Come  Pentecost  as  quickly  as  it  will. 
Some    five -and-t wen ty   years;    and   then  we 

mask'd. 

2  Cap.  'T  is  more,  't  is  more:  his  son  is  elder, 

sir; 
His  son  is  thirty. 

1  Cap.  Will  you  tell  me  that  ? 

His  son  was  but  a  ward  two  years  ago. ' 

Rom.  What  lady 's  that,  which  doth  enrich 
the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight? 

Serv.  I  know  not,  sir  ? 
Rom.  O,  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn 
bright ! 
Her  beauty  "^  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 

*  Thus  [A).     (C)  and  folio,  walk  about, 

•>  This  passage,  to  "More  light,  ye  knaves,"  is  wanting 
in  (A). 

"^  Good  cousin  Capulet.  The  word  cousin,  in  Shakspere,  was 
applied  to  any  collateral  relation  of  whatever  degree ;  thus 
we  have  in  this  play  "Tybalt,  my  cousin.  Oh  my  brother's 
child."  Richard  the  Third  calls  his  nephew  York,  cousin, 
while  the  boy  calls  Richard,  uncle.  In  the  same  play,  York's 
grandmother  calls  him  cousin,  while  he  replies  grandam. 

J  Her  beauty  hangs.  All  the  ancient  editions  which  can  be 
considered  authorities — the  four  quartos  and  the  first  folio — 
read  It  seems  she  hangs.  The  reading  of  her  beauty  is  from 
the  second  folio.  Why  then,  it  may  be  asked,  do  we  depart 
from  our  usual  principle,  and  reject  an  undoubted  ancient 
reading  ?  Because  the  reading  which  we  give  has  become 
familiar, — has  passed  into  common  use  wherever  our  Ian. 
guagc  is  spoken, — is  quoted  in  books  as  frequently  as  any 
of  the  other  passages  of  Shakspere  which  constantly  present 
themselves  as  examples  of  his  exquisite  power  of  description. 

21 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


As"  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear  : 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear ! 
So  shews  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows, 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shews. 
The  measure  done,  I  '11  watch  her  place  of  stand. 
And  touching  hers,  make   blessed''   my  rude 

hand. 
Did  my  heart  love  till  now  ?  forswear  it,  sight ! 
For  I  ne'er  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night. 

Tyh.  This,  by  his  voice,  should  be  a  Mon- 
tague : — 
Fetch  me  my  rapier,  boy :  What !   dares  the 

slave 
Come  hither,  cover'd  with  an  antic  face. 
To  fleer  and  scorn  at  our  solemnity  ? 
Now  by  the  stock  and  honour  of  my  kin, 
To  strike  him  dead  I  hold  it  not  a  sin. 

1  Cap.  Why,  how  now,  kinsman?  where- 
fore storm  you  so  ? 

Tyh.  Uncle,  this  is  a  Montague,  our  foe ; 
A  villain,  that  is  hither  come  in  spite, 
To  scorn  at  our  solemnity  this  night. 

1  Cap.  Young  Romeo  is't? 

Tyb.  'T  is  he,  that  villain  Romeo. 

1  Cap.  Content  thee,   gentle   coz,  let  him 
alone. 
He  bears  him  like  a  portly  gentleman ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  Verona  brags  of  him. 
To  be  a  virtuous  and  well-govern'd  youth : 
I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  all  the  town, 
Here  in  my  house,  do  him  disparagement : 
Therefore  be  patient,  take  no  note  of  him. 
It  is  my  wiU  ;   the  which  if  thou  respect, 
Shew  a  fair  presence,  and  put  off  these  frowns, 
An  ill-beseeming  semblance  for  a  feast. 

Tyh.  It  fits,  when  such  a  villain  is  a  guest; 
I  '11  not  endure  him. 

1  Cap.  He  shall  be  endur'd. 

What,  goodman  boy! — I  say,  he  shall; — Go 

to ; — 
Am  I  the  master  here,  or  you?  go  to. 
You  '11  not  endure  him ! — God  shall  mend  my 

soul — 
You  '11  make  a  mutiny  among  my  guests ! 
You  will  set  cock-a-hoop !  *  you  '11  be  the  man ! 

Here,  it  appears  to  us,  is  a  higher  law  to  be  observed  than 
that  of  adherence  to  the  ancient  copies.  It  is  the  same  with 
the  celebrated  passage, 

"  Or  dedicate  his  beauty  to  the  sun." 
All  the  ancient  copies  read  the  same.  We  believe  this  to  be 
a  misprint :  but,  even  if  that  could  not  be  alleged,  we  should 
feel  ourselves  justified  in  retaining  the  sun.  Such  instances, 
of  course,  present  but  very  rare  exceptions  to  a  general  rule. 
»  (A),  Like.  b  go  (C)  and  folio.  {A),  happy. 

"  Set  cock-a-hoop.  The  origin  of  this  phrase,  which  ap- 
pears always  to  be  used  in  the  sense  of  hasty  and  violent 
excess,  is  very  doubtful.  The  received  opinion  is,  that  on 
some  festive  occasions  the  cock,  or  spigot,  was  taken  out  of 
the  barrel  and  laid  on  the  /looj),  and  that  the  uninterrupted 
flow  of  the  ale  naturally  led  to  intemperance. 

22 


Tyb.  Why,  uncle,  't  is  a  shame. 
1  Cap.  Go  to,  go  to, 

You  are  a  saucy  boy:  Is 't  so  indeed  ? 
This  trick  may  chance  to  scath*  you ; — I  know 

what. 
You  must  contrary'"  me  ! — marry,  't  is  time — 
Well  said,  my  hearts! — You  are  a  princox;*' 

go:— 
Be  quiet,  or — More  light,  more  light.  —  For 

shame ! 
I'll  make  you  quiet;   What!  —  Cheerly,  my 
hearts. 
Tyh.  Patience  perforce  with  wilful  choler 
meeting 
Makes  my  flesh  tremble  in  their  different  greet- 
ing. 
I  will  withdraw :  but  this  intrusion  shall, 
Now  seeming  sweet,  convert  to  bitter  gall. 

[Exit. 
Mom.  If  I  profane  with  my  unworthiest  hand 

[To  Juliet. 
This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  sin  •*  is  this, — 
My  lips,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 
To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  ten- 
der kiss, 
Jul.  Good  pilgrim,  you  do  wrong  your  hand 
too  much. 
Which  mannerly  devotion  shews  in  this ; 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrims'  hands  do 
touch, 
And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmers'  kiss. 
Mom.  Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers 

too? 
Jul.  Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that  they  must  use  in 

prayer. 
Mom.  O  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  what 
hands  do ; 
They  pray,  grant  thou,  lest  faith  turn  to 
despair. 
Jul.  Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for 

prayers'  sake. 
Mom.  Then  move   not,  while  my  prayers' 
effect  I  take. 
Thus  from  my  lips,  by  thine  "^  my  sin  is  purg'd. 

[Kissing  her, 
Jul.  Then  have  my  lips  the  sin  that  they 

have  took. 
Mom.  Sin  from  my  lips  ?  O  trespass  sweetly 
urg'd ! 
Give  me  my  sin  again. 

°-  To  scath.    To  injure. 

b  ContrAry.   Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and  many  other  old  writers, 
use  this  as  a  verb. 

■=  Princox.     Coxcomb. 

li  So  all  the  old  copies.     Warburton  changed  sin  tojine. 

"  (A),  yours. 


Act  I.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V 


Jill.  You  kiss  by  the  book. 

Nurse.  Madam,  your  mother  craves  a  word 
with  you. 

Rom.  What  is  her  mother  ? 

Nurse.  Marry,  bachelor, 

Her  mother  is  the  lady  of  the  house, 
And  a  good  lady,  and  a  wise,  and  virtuous : 
I  nurs'd  her  daughter,  that  you  talk'd  withal; 
I  tell  you, — he,  that  can  lay  hold  of  her, 
Shall  have  the  chinks. 

Rom.  Is  she  a  Capulet  ? 

0  dear  account !  my  life  is  my  foe's  debt. 
Ben.  Away,  begone ;  the  sport  is  at  the  best. 
Rom.  Ay,  so  I  fear;  the  more  is  my  unrest. 
1  Cap.  Nay,  gentlemen,  prepare  not  to  be 

gone; 
We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  towards. » 
Is  it  e'en  so  ?  Why,  then  I  thank  you  all ; 

1  thank  you,  honest  gentlemen ;  good  night : — 
More  torches  here! — Come  on,  then  let's  to  bed. 
Ah,  sirrah,  [To  2  Cap.]  by  my  fay,  it  waxes 

late; 
I  '11  to  my  rest. 

\_Ezeunt  all  but  Juliet  and  Nurse. 

*  Tozimrds.  Ready ;  at  hand. 


Jul.  Come  hither,  nurse  :  What  is  yon  gen- 
tleman ? 
Nurse.  The  son  and  lieir  of  old  Tiberio. 
Jul.  What 's  he,  that   now   is  going  out  of 

door? 
Nurse.  Marry,  that,  I  think,  be  young  Pe- 

truchio. 
Jul.  What's   he,   that  follows  there,    that 

would  not  dance? 
Nurse,  I  know  not. 

Jul.  Go,  ask  his  name  : — if  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding  bed. 

Nurse.  His  name  is  Eomeo,  and  a  Montague ; 
The  only  son  of  your  great  enemy. 

Jul.  My  only  love  sprung  from  my  only  hate ! 
Too  early  seen  unknown,  and  known  too  late  ! 
Prodigious  birth  of  love  it  is  to  me, 
That  I  must  love  a  loathed  enemy. 
Nurse.  What's  this?  What's  this? 
Jul.  A  rhyme  I  learn'd  even  now 

Of  one  I  danc'd  withal. 

[07ie  calls  within,  "Juliet." 
Nurse.  Anon,  anon: — 

Come,  let 's  away ;  the  strangers  all  are  gone. 

\_£xeunf. 


Enter  Chorus. 


Now  old  desire  doth  in  his  death-bed  lie. 

And  young  affection  gapes  to  be  his  heir  ; 
That  fair,  for  which  love  groan'd  for,  and  would  die. 

With  tender  Juliet  match'd,  is  now  not  fair. 
Now  Romeo  is  belov'd,  and  loves  again. 

Alike  bewitched  by  the  charm  of  looks; 
But  to  his  foe  suppos'd  he  must  complain. 

And  she  steal  love's  sweet  bait  from  fearful  hooks : 


Being  held  a  foe,  he  may  not  have  access 

To  breathe  such  vows  as  lovers  use  to  swear ; 

And  she  as  much  in  love,  her  means  much  less 
To  meet  her  new-beloved  any  where  : 

But  passion  lends  them  power,  time  means,  to  meet, 
Terap'ring  extremities  with  extreme  sweet. 

[Exit. 


2ti 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  L 


Verona,  the  city  of  Italy,  where,  next  to  Rome, 
the  antiquary  most  luxuriates  ; — where,  blended  with 
the  remains  of  theatres,  and  amphitheatres,  and  tri- 
umphal arches,  are  the  palaces  of  the  factious  nobles, 
and  the  tombs  of  the  despotic  princes  of  the  Gothic 
ages ; — Verona,  so  rich  in  the  associations  of  real 
history,  has  even  a  greater  charm  for  those  who  would 
live  in  the  poetry  of  the  past : — 

"  Are  these  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  masque 
Saw  her  lov'd  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  ?" 

So  felt  our  tender  and  graceful  poet,  Rogers.  He 
adds,  in  a  note,  "  The  old  palace  of  the  Cappelletti, 
with  its  uncouth  balcony  and  irregular  windows,  is 
still  standing  in  a  lane  near  the  market-place  ;  and 
what  Englishman  can  behold  it  with  indifference  ? 
When  we  enter  Verona,  we  forget  ourselves,  and  are 
almost  inclined  to  say  with  Dante, 

'  Vieni  a  veder  Montecchi,  e  Cappelletti.' " 

'  Scene  I. — "  Gregory,  o'  my  word,  tve  'II  not  carry 
coals." 

To  carry  coals  was  to  submit  to  servile  oiBces. 
GiflFord  has  a  note  upon  a  passage  in  Ben  Jonson's 
"  Every  man  out  of  his  Humour,"  where  Puntarvolo, 
wanting  his  dog  held,  exclaims, "  Here  comes  one 
that  will  carry  coals,"  in  which  note  he  clearly  enough 
shews  the  origin  of  the  reproach  of  carrying  coals. 
"  In  all  great  houses,  but  particularly  in  the  royal 
residences,  there  were  a  number  of  mean  and  dirty 
dependants,  whose  office  it  was  to  attend  the  wood- 
yards,  sculleries,  &c.  Of  these  (for  in  the  lowest  deep 
there  was  a  lower  still)  the  most  forlorn  wretches  seem 
to  have  been  selected  to  carry  coals  to  the  kitchens, 
halls,  &c.  To  this  smutty  regiment,  who  attended 
the  progresses,  and  rode  in  the  carts  with  the  pots 
and  kettles,  which,  with  every  other  article  of  furni- 
ture, were  then  moved  from  palace  to  palace,  the 
people,  in  derision,  gave  the  name  of  black  guards,  a 
term  since  become  sufficiently  familiar,  and  never  pro- 
perly explained,"  In  the  passage  here  quoted  from 
Ben  Jonson,  we  find  the  primary  meaning  of  the  ex- 
pression— that  of  being  fit  for  servile  offices  ;  but  in  a 
subsequent  passage  of  the  same  play,  we  have  also  the 
secondary  meaning — that  of  tamely  submitting  to  an 
affront.  Puntarvolo,  having  lost  his  dog,  insults  Shift, 
who  he  supposes  has  taken  it ;  upon  which  another 
character  exclaims : — "  Take  heed.  Sir  Puntarvolo, 
what  you  do,  he  '11  bears  no  coals,  I  can  tell  you." 
Gifford  has  given  a  quotation  in  illustration  of  this 
meaning  (which  is  the  sense  in  which  Shakspere  here 
uses  it),  worth  all  the  long  list  of  similar  passages  in 
the  Shaksperean  commentators :  "  It  remayneth  now 
24 


that  I  take  notice  of  Jaspar's  arryvall,  and  of  those  let- 
ters with  which  the  queen  was  exceedingly  well  satis- 
fied :  saying  that  you  were  too  like  somebody  in  the 
world,  to  whom  she  is  afrayde  you  are  a  little  kin,  to 
be  content  to  carry  coales  at  any  Frenchman's  hand." 
—  Secretary  Cecyll  to  Sir  Henry  Neville,  March  2, 
1559. 

*  Scene  I. — "  Here  comes  of  the  house  of  the  Mon- 
tagues." 
How  are  the  Montagues  known  from  the  Capulets? 
naturally  occurs  to  us.  They  wore  badges,  which,  in 
all  countries,  have  been  the  outward  manifestations  of 
party  spirit.  Gascoigne,  in  "  a  device  of  a  masque," 
written  in  1575,  has, 

"  And  for  a  further  proof  he  shewed  in  hys  hat 
.  Thys  token  which  the  Mounlacutes  did  beare  alwaies, 
for  that 
They  covet  to  be  knowne  from  Capels." 

^  Scene  I. — "  /  will  bite  my  thumb  at  them." 

There  can  be  little  doubt,  we  apprehend,  that  this 
mode  of  insult  was  originally  peculiar  to  Italy,  and 
was  perhaps  a  mitigated  form  of  the  greater  insult  of 
making  the  fig,  or  fico,  that  is,  thrusting  out  the 
thumb  in  a  peculiar  manner  between  the  fingers. 
Douce  has  bestowed  much  laborious  investigation 
upon  this  difficult,  and  somewhat  worthless  subject. 
The  commentators  have  not  distinctly  alluded  to 
what  appears  to  us  the  identity  of  biting  the  thumb 
and  the  fico ;  but  a  passage  in  Lodge's  "  Wit's  Mise- 
rie"  clearly  shews,  that  the  customs  were  one  and  the 
same : — "  Behold,  I  see  contempt  marching  forth, 
giving  mee  the  fico  with  his  thumbein  his  mouth." 
The  practice  of  biting  the  thumb  was  naturalized 
amongst  us  in  Shakspere 's  time ;  and  the  lazy  and 
licentious  groups  that  frequented  "  Paul's"  are  thus 
described  by  Dekker,  in  1608:  "  What  swearing  is 
there,  what  shouldering,  what  justling,  what  jeering, 
what  biting  of  thumbs  to  beget  quarrels  !" 

*SceneI. — *'  Gregory,  remember  thy  swashing  blow." 

Sampson  and  Gregory  are  described  as  armed  with 
swords  and  bucklers.  The  swashing  blow  is  a  blow 
upon  the  buckler ;  the  blow  accompanied  with  a  noise ; 
and  thus  a  swasher  came  to  be  synonymous  with  a 
quarrelsome  fellow,  a  braggart.  In  Henry  V.,  Bar- 
dolph.  Pistol,  and  Nym,  are  called  by  the  boy  three 
"  swashers."  Holinshed  has — "  a  man  may  see  how 
many  bloody  quarrels  a  brawling  swash-buckler  may 
pick  out  of  a  bottle  of  hay  ;"  and  Fuller,  in  his  "  Wor- 
thies," after  describing  a  swaggerer  as  one  that  endea- 
vours to  make  that  side  to  swagger,  or  weigh  down, 
whereon  he  engages,  tells  us  that  a  swash-buckler  is  so 
called  from  swashing,  or  making  a  noise  on  bucklers. 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


*  Scene  I. — "Clubs,  bills,  and partizans." 
The  cry  of  "  clubs"  is  as  thoroughly  of  English 
origin  as  the  "  bite  my  thumb"  is  of  Italian.  Scott 
has  made  the  cry  familiar  to  us  in  "  The  Fortunes  of 
Nigel ;"  and  when  the  citizens  of  Verona  here  raise  it, 
we  involuntarily  think  of  the  old  watch-maker's  hatch- 
door  in  Fleet-street,  and  Jin  Vin  and  Tunstall  darting 
off  for  the  affray.  "  The  great  long  club,"  as  de- 
scribed by  Stow,  on  the  necks  of  the  London  appren- 
tices, was  as  characteristic  as  the  flat  cap  of  the  same 
quarrelsome  body,  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth  and  James. 
The  use  by  Shakspere  of  home  phrases,  in  the  mouths 


of  foreign  characters,  was  a  part  of  his  art.  It  is  the 
same  thing  as  rendering  Sancho's  Spanish  proverbs 
into  the  corresponding  English  proverbs  instead  of 
literally  translating  them.  The  cry  of  clubs  by  the 
citizens  of  Verona,  expressed  an  idea  of  popular 
movement,  which  could  not  have  been  conveyed  half 
so  emphatically  in  a  foreign  phrase.  VVe  have  given 
a  group  of  ancient  bills  and  partizans,  viz.,  a  verv 
early  form  of  bill,  from  a  specimen  preserved  in  the 
Town  Hall  of  Canterbury  ; — bills  of  the  times  of 
Henry  Y\.,  VIL,  and  VIH.  ; — and  partizans  of  the 
times  of  Edward  IV.,  Henry  VII.,  and  James  I. 


*  Scene  L — "  Underneath  the  grove  of  sycamore." 

When  Shakspere  has  to  deal  with  descriptions  of 
natural  scenery,  he  almost  invariably  localizes  himself 


with  the  utmost  distinctness.  He  never  mistakes  the 
sycamore  groves  of  the  south  for  the  birch  woods 
of  the  north.  In  such  cases  he  was  not  required  to 
employ  familiar  and  conventional  images,  for  the  sake 


Tragediks— Vol.  I.         E 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  T. 


of  presenting  an  idea  more  distinctly  to  his  audience 
than  a  rigid  adherence  to  the  laws  of  costume  (we 
employ  the  word  in  its  larger  sense  of  manners)  would 
have  allowed.     The  grove  of  sycamore 

"  That  westward  rooteth  from  this  city's  side,'' 

takes  us  at  once  to  a  scene  entirely  different  from  one 
presented  by  Shakspere's  own  experience.  The  syca- 
more is  the  oriental  plane  (little  known  in  England, 
though  sometimes  found),spreading  its  Sroac? branches 
— from  which  its  nsime, platanus — to  supply  the  most 
delightful  of  shades  under  the  sun  of  Syria  or  of  Italy. 
Shakspere  might  have  found  the  sycamore  in  Chau- 
cer's exquisite  tale  of  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  where 
the  hedge  that 


"  Closed  in  alle  the  green  arbere. 

With  sycamore  was  set  and  eglantere." 

'  Scene  I. — "  O  braioling  love  !  O  loving  hateT' 

This  antithetical  combination  of  contraries  ori- 
ginated in  the  Proven 9al  poetry,  and  was  assidu- 
ously cultivated  by  Petrarch.  Shakspere,  in  this  pas- 
sage, may  be  distinctly  traced  to  Chaucer's  translation 
of  the  "  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,"  where  we  have  love 
described  as  a  hateful  peace — a  truth  full  of  falsehood 
— a  despairing  hope— a  void  reason — a  sick  heal,  &c. 

«  Scene  I. — "  These  happy  masks,  that  kiss  fair 
ladies'  brows. 
Being  black,  put  us  in  mind  they  hide  the 
fair" 

Steevens  says  that  the  masks  here  meant  were 
those  worn  by  female  spectators  of  the  play  ;  but  it 
appears  scarcely  necessary  so  to  limit  the  use  of  a 
lady's  mask.  In  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 
we  have  the  "sun-expelling  mask.''  In  Love's  La- 
bour 's  Lost  the  ladies  wear  masks  in  the  first  inter- 


view between  the  king  and  the  princess : — "  Now 
fair  befall  your  mask,"  says  Biron  to  Rosaline.     We 
26 


subjoin  a  representation  of  an  Italian  lady  in  her 
black  mask.  The  figure  (without  the  mask)  is  in 
Vicellio's  Habiti  Antichi  e  Moderni. 


^  Scene  II. — "  This  night  I  hold  an  old  accustom'd 
feast." 

In  the  poem  of  Romeus  and  Juliet  the  season  of 
Capulet's  feast  is  winter: — 

"  The  wery  winter  nightes  restore  the  Christmas  games, 
And  now  the  season  doth  invite  to  banquet  townish  dames. 
And  fyrst  in  Cappel's  house,  the  chief  of  all  the  kyn 
Sparth  for  no  cost,  the  wonted  use  of  banquets  to  begin." 

Shakspere  had,  perhaps,  this  in  his  mind  when,  at 
the  ball,  old  Capulet  cries  out — 

"  And  quench  the  fire,  the  room  is  grown  too  hot ;" 

but  in  every  other  instance,  the  season  is  unques- 
tionably summer.  "  The  day  is  hot,"  says  Benvolio. 
The  Friar  is  up  in  his  garden, 

"  Now  ere  the  sun  advance  his  burning  eye." 

Juliet  hears  the  nightingale  sing  from  the  pomegra- 
nate tree.  During  the  whole  course  of  the  poem,  the 
action  appears  to  move  under  the  "  vaulty  heaven" 
of  Italy,  with  a  soft  moon 

"  That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops," 

and  "  day's  pathway"  made  lustrous  by 

" Titan's  fiery  wheels." 

10  Scene  II. — "Such   comfort  as   do   lusty  young 
men  feel,"  ^c. 

Dr.  Johnson  would  read  yeomen,  and  make  Capu- 
let compare  the  delight  of  Paris  "among  fresh  female 
buds"  to  the  joy  of  the  farmer  on  the  return  of  spring. 
But  the  spirit  of  Italian  poetry  was  upon  Shakspere 
when  he  wrote  these  lines  ;  and  he  thought  not  of  the 
lusty  yeomen  in  his  fields, 

"  While  the  plow-man  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land," 

but  of  such  gay  groups  as  Boccaccio  has  painted,  who, 

"  Sat  down  in  the  high  grass,  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun  proof." 

Shakspere  has,indeed,explained  his  own  idea  of  "  well- 
apparell'd  April"  in  that  beautiful  Sonnet  beginning 

"  From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing." 

Douce  has  well  observed,  that,  in  this  passage  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Shakspere  might  "  have  had  in 
view  the  decorations  which  accompany  the  above 
month  in  some  of  the  manuscript  and  printed  calen- 
dars, where  the  young  folks  are  represented  as  sitting 
together  on  the  grass  ;  the  men  ornamenting  the  girls 
with  chaplets  of  flowers."  We  have  adapted  one  of 
these  representations  from  a  drawing  in  the  beautiful 
manuscript  of  the  Roman  de  la  Rose  in  the  British 
Museum. 


^If^. 


»>  SgENE  II. — "  Your  plantain  leaf  is  excellent  for 
that." 

The  leaf  of  the  broad-leafed  plantain  was  used  as 
a  blood  stancher.  Of  course,  Shakspere  did  not  al- 
lude to  the  tropical  fruit-bearing  plant,  but  to  the 
common  plantain  of  our  English  marshy  grounds 
and  ditches.  The  plantain  was  also  considered  as  a 
preventive  of  poison ;  and  to  this  supposed  virtue 
Romeo  first  alludes. 


*^ Scene  III.  —  "'Tis  since  the   earthquake  now 
eleven  years." 

We  have  shewn  in  our  Introductory  Notice  the 
importance  of  this  line,  as  affording  a  probable  date 
for  the  composition  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  The  earth- 
quake that  was  within  the  recollection  of  Shakspere's 
audience  happened  in  the  year  1580.  The  principle 
of  dating  from  an  earthquake,  or  from  any  other 
remarkable  phenomenon,  is  a  very  obvious  one.  We 
have  an  example  as  old  as  the  days  of  the  prophet 
Amos  : — "  The  words  of  Amos,  who  was  among  the 
herdmen  of  Tekoa,  which  he  saw  concerning  Israel  in 
the  days  of  Uzziah  king  of  Judah,  and  in  the  days  of 
Jeroboam,  the  son  of  Joash  king  of  Israel,  two  years 
before  the  earthquake."  Tyrwhitt  says,  "  But  how 
comes  the  Nurse  to  talk  of  an  earthquake  upon  this 
occasion  ?  There  is  no  such  circumstance,  I  believe, 
mentioned  in  any  of  the  novels  from  which  Shakspere 
may  be  supposed  to  have  drawn  his  story.''  But  it 
appears  to  us  by  no  means  improbable  that  Shakspere 
might  have  been  acquainted  with  some  description  of 
the  great  earthquake  which  happened  at  Verona,  in 
1348,  when  Petrarch  was  sojourning  in  that  city ;  and 
that  with  something  like  historical  propriety,  there- 
fore, he  made  the  Nurse  date  from  that  event,  while 
at  the  same  time  the  supposed  allusion  to  the  earth- 
quake in  England  of  1580  would  be  relished  by  his 
audience. 

27 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I, 


'■'  Scene  III. — "  Read  o'er  the  volume  of  young  Paris' 
face" 

This  passage  furnishes  a  very  remarkable  example 
of  the  correctness  of  the  principle  laid  down  in  Mr. 
Whiter's  very  able  tract, — "An  Attempt  to  explain 
and  illustrate  various  Passages  of  Shakspere,  on  a  nevir 
Principle  of  Criticism,  derived  from  Mr.  Locke's  Doc- 
trine of  the  Association  of  Ideas."  Mr.  Whiter's  most 
ingenious  theory  would  lose  much  in  being  jDresented 
in  any  other  than  his  own  words.  We  may  just  men- 
tion that  his  leading  doctrine,  as  applied  to  Shakspere, 
is,  that  the  exceeding  warmth  of  his  imagination  often 
supplied  him,  by  the  power  of  association,  with  words, 
and  with  ideas,  suggested  to  the  mind  by  a  principle 
of  union  unperceived  by  himself,  and  independent  of 
the  subject  to  which  they  are  applied.  We  readily 
agree  with  Mr.  Whiter  that  "  this  propensity  in  the 
mind  to  associate  subjects  so  remote  in  their  meaning, 
and  so  heterogeneous  in  their  nature,  must,  of  neces- 
sity, sometimes  deceive  the  ardour  of  the  writer  into 
whimsical  or  ridiculous  combinations.  As  the  reader, 
however,  is  not  blinded  by  this  fascinating  principle, 
which,  while  it  creates  the  association,  conceals  like- 
wise its  effects,  he  is  instantly  impressed  with  the 
quaintness  or  the  absurdity  of  the  imagery,  and  is 
inclined  to  charge  the  writer  with  the  intention  of  a 
foolish  quibble,  or  an  impertinent  allusion."  It  is  in 
this  spirit  of  a  cold  and  literal  criticism,  here  so  well 
described,  that  Mr.  Monck  Mason  pronounces  upon 
the  passage  before  us, — "  this  ridiculous  speech  is  full 
of  abstruse  quibbles."  But  the  principle  of  associa- 
tion, as  explained  by  Mr.  Whiter,  at  once  reconciles 
us  to  the  quibbles.     The  "  volume"  of  young  Paris' 


face  suggests  the  "beauty's  pen"  which  hath  "writ" 
there.  Then  the  obscurities  of  the  fair  "  volume" 
are  written  in  the  "margin  of  his  eyes,"  as  comments 
of  ancient  books  are  always  printed  in  the  margin. 
Lastly,  this  "book  of  love"  lacks  "a  cover" — the 
"  golden  story"  must  be  locked  in  with  "  golden 
clasps."  The  ingenious  management  of  the  vein  of 
imagery  is  at  least  as  remarkable  as  its  "  abstruse 
quibbles." 

"Scene  IV, — "We'll  have  no  Cupid  hood-wink' d 
with  a  scarf,"  &c. 
The  mask  of  ladies,  or  amazons,  in  Shakspere 's 
Timon,  is  preceded  by  a  Cupid,  who  addresses  the 
company  in  a  speech.  This  "device"  was  a  practice 
of  courtly  life,  before  and  during  the  time  of  Shak- 
spere.    But  here  he  says, 

"  The  date  Is  out  of  such  prolixity." 
The  "  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath"  is  the  bow  of  the 
Asiatic  nations,  with  a  double  curve ;  and  Shakspere 
employed  the  epithet  to  distinguish  the  bow  of  Cupid 
from  the  old  English  long  bow.  The  "  crow-keeper" 
who  scares  the  ladies,  had  also  a  bow : — he  is  the 
shuffle  or  mawkin — the  scarecrow  of  rags  and  straw, 
with  a  bow  and  arrow  in  his  hand.  "  That  fellow 
handles  his  bow  like  a  crow-keeper,"  says  Lear.  The 
"  without-book  prologue  faintly  spoke  after  the  promp- 
ter," is  supposed  by  Warton  to  allude  to  the  boy-actors 
that  we  afterwards  find  so  fully  noticed  in  Hamlet. 

*^  Scene  IV. — "  We  HI  measure  them  a  measure," 

The  "  measure"  was  the  courtly  dance  of  the  days 

of  Elizabeth ;  not  so  solemn  as  the  pavan — the  "  doleful 

pavan,"  as  Davenant  calls  it,  in  which  princes  in  their 


28 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


mantles,  and  lawyers  in  their  long  robes,  and  courtly 
dames  with  enormous  trains,  swept  the  rushes  like  the 
tails  of  peacocks.  From  this  circumstance  came  its 
name,  the  pavan — the  dance  of  the  peacock.  The 
"  measure"  may  be  best  described  in  Shakspere's  own 
words,  in  the  mouth  of  the  lively  Beatrice,  in  Much 
ado  about  Nothing :— "  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music, 
cousin,  if  you  be  not  woo'd  in  good  time;  if  the 
prince  be  too  important,  tell  him  there  is  measure  in 
every  thing,  and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear 
me,  Hero :  wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a 
Scotch  jig,  a  tneasicre,  and  a  cinque-pace :  the  first 
suit  is  hot  and  hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as 
fantastical:  the  wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a 
measure  full  of  state  and  ancientry  ;  and  then  comes 
repentance,  and,  with  his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque- 
pace  faster  and  faster,  till  he  sink  into  his  grave." 

16  Scene  IV. — "  Give  me  a  torch." 

Romeo  declares  that  he  will  not  dance : 
"  I  am  not  for  this  ambling." 
He  subsequently  says, 

"  I  '11  be  a  caudle-holder,  and  look  on." 
Anciently,  all  rooms  of  state  were  lighted  by  waxen 
torches  borne  in  the  hands  of  attendants.  Froissart 
thus  describes  the  feasting  of  Gaston  de  Foix  : — "  At 
midnight  when  he  came  out  of  his  chamber  into  the 
hall  to  supper,  he  had  ever  before  him  twelve  torches 
brennyng,  borne  by  twelve  varlettes  standing  before 
his  table  all  supper."  To  hold  the  torch  was  not, 
however,  a  degrading  office  in  England  ;  for  the 
gentlemen  pensioners  of  Elizabeth  held  torches  while 
a  play  was  acted  before  her  in  the  chapel  of  King's 
College,  Cambridge. 

'^  Scene  IV. — "Tickle  the  senseless  rushes  with 
their  heels." 

Carpets,  though  known  in  Italy,  were  not  adapted 
to  the  English  habits  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  ;  and 
even  the  presence-chamber  of  that  queen  was,  ac- 
cording to  Hentzner,  strewed  with  hay,  by  which  he 
meant  rushes.  The  impurities  which  gathered  on  the 
floor  were  easily  removed  with  the  rushes.  But  the 
custom  of  strewing  rushes,  although  very  general  in 
England,  was  not  peculiar  to  it.  Mr.  Brown,  in  his 
work  on  Shakspere's  auto-biographical  poems,  has 
this  observation  :  "  An  objection  has  been  made," im- 
puting an  error,  in  Grumio's  question, '  Are  the  rushes 
strewed?'  But  the  custom  of  strewing  rushes  in 
England  belonged  also  to  Italy;  this  may  be  seen  in 
old  authors,  and  their  very  word,  ffiuncare,  now  out 
of  use,  is  a  proof  of  it." 

''  Scene  IV. — "  Tut !  dim's  the  mouse." 

We  have  a  string  of  sayings  here  which  have  much 
puzzled  the  commentators.  "When  Romeo  exclaims, 
"  I  am  done,"  Mercutio,  playing  upon  the  word,  cries 
"  dun 's  the  mouse."  This  is  a  proverbial  phrase,  con- 
stantly occurring  in  the  old  comedies.  It  is  probably 
something  like  the  other  cant  phrase  that  occurs  in 
Lear,  "the  cat  is  grey."  The  following  line 
"  If  thou  art  dun,  we  '11  draw  thee  from  the  mire," 


was  fully  as  puzzling,  till  GifFordgave  us  a  solution  : — 
"  Dun  is  in  the  miVe/  then,  is  a  Christmas  gambol,  at 
which  I  have  often  played.  A  log  of  wood  is  brought 
into  the  midst  of  the  room  :  this  is  dun  (the  cart 
horse),  and  a  cry  is  raised,  that  he  is  stuck  in  the  mire. 
Two  of  the  company  advance,  either  with  or  without 
ropes,  to  draw  him  out.  After  repeated  attempts,  they 
find  themselves  unable  to  do  it,  and  call  for  more 
assistance. — The  game  continues  till  all  the  company 
take  part  in  it,  when  dun  is  extricated,  of  course ; 
and  the  merriment  arises  from  the  awkward  and 
affected  efforts  of  the  rustics  to  lift  the  log,  and  from 
sundry  arch  contrivances  to  let  the  ends  of  it  fall  on  one 
another's  toes.  This  will  not  be  thought  a  very  ex- 
quisite amusement ;  and  yet  I  have  seen  much  honest 
mirth  at  it,  and  have  been  far  more  entertained  with 
the  ludicrous  contortions  of  pretended  struggles,  than 
with  the  real  writhing,  the  dark  scowl  of  avarice  and 
envy,  exhibited  by  the  same  description  of  persons,  in 
the  genteeler  amusement  of  cards,  the  universal  sub- 
stitute for  all  our  ancient  sports." — (Ben  Jonson's 
Works,  vol.  vii.  page  282.) 

19  Scene  IV. — "  Sir  reverence." 
This  was  the  old  mode  of  apology  for  the  introduc- 
tion of  a  free  expression.  Mercutio  says,  he  will  draw 
Romeo  from  the  "  mire  of  this  love,"  and  uses,  paren- 
thetically, the  ordinary  form  of  apology  for  speaking 
so  profanely  of  love.  Gifford  has  given  us  a  quotation 
from  an  old  tract  on  the  origin  of  tobacco,  which  is 
exactly  in  point: — "The  time  hath  been  when  if  we 
did  speak  of  this  loathsome  stuff,  tobacco,  we  used  to 
put  a  '  Sir  reverence'  before,  but  we  forget  our  good 
manners."  In  another  note  on  the  same  word,  Gif- 
ford says,  "there  is  much  filthy  stuff  on  this  simple 
interjection,  of  which  neither  Steevens  nor  Malone 
appears  to  have  known  the  import,  in  the  notes  to 
Romeo  and  Juliet." — (Ben  Jonson's  Works,  vol.  vi. 
page  149  ;  vol.  vii.  page  337.) 

^^  Scene  IV. — "  This  is  that  very  Mob 

That  plats  the  manes  of  horses  in  the  night." 

We   extract  the   following   amusing   note   from 
Deuce's  Illustrations : — 

"  This  line  alludes  to  a  very  singular  superstition, 
not  yet  forgotten  in  some  parts  of  the  country.  It  was 
believed  that  certain  malignant  spirits,  whose  delight 
was  to  wander  in  groves  and  pleasant  places,  assumed 
occasionally  the  likenesses  of  women  clothed  in  white  ; 
that  in  this  character  they  sometimes  haunted  stables 
in  the  night-time,  carrying  in  their  hands  tapers  of 
wax,  which  they  dropped  on  the  horses'  manes,  there- 
by plaiting  them  in  inextricable  knots,  to  the  great 
annoyance  of  the  poor  animals,  and  the  vexation  of 
their  masters.  These  hags  are  mentioned  in  the  works 
of  William  Auvergne,  Bishop  of  Paris,  in  the  thirteenth 
century.  There  is  a  very  uncommon  old  print  by 
Hans  Burgmair,  relating  to  this  subject.  A  witch 
enters  the  stable  with  a  lighted  torch ;  and  previously 
to  the  operation  of  entangling  the  horse's  mane,  prac- 
tises her  enchantments  on  the  groom,  who  is  lying 
asleep  on  his  back,  and  apparently  influenced  by  the 
nightmare.  The  belemnites,  or  elf-stones,  were  re- 
garded as  charms  against  the  last-mentioned  disease 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


and  against  evil  spirits  of  all  kinds ;  but  the  ceraunise, 
or  boetuli,  and  all  perforated  flint  stones,  were  not 
only  used  for  the  same  purpose,  but  more  particularly 
for  the  protection  of  horses  and  other  cattle,  by  sus- 
pending them  in  stables,  or  tying  them  round  the 
necks  of  the  animals." 
The  next  line, 

"  And  bakes  the  elf-locks  in  foul  sluttish  hairs," 
seems  to  be  unconnected  with  the  preceding,  and  to 
mark  a  superstition,  which,  as  Dr.  Warburton  has  ob- 
served, may  have  originated  from  the  plica  Polonica, 
which  was  supposed  to  be  the  operation  of  the  wicked 
elves,  whence  the  clotted  hair  was  called  elf-locks, 
and  elf-knots.  Thus  Edgar  talks  of  "  elfing  all  his 
hair  in  knots." 


^'  Scene  V. — "  Remove  the  court  cujjboard." 

The  court  cupboard  was  the  ornamental  sideboard, 
set  out  with  salvers  and  beakers  on  days  of  festivity. 
We  have  in  a  play  of  1599,  "  accomplished  the  court 
cupboard;"  and  in  another  by  Chapman,  in  1606, 
"  Here  shall  stand  my  court  cupboard  with  its  furni- 
ture of  plate."  In  Italy  the  art  of  Benvenuto  Cellini 
was  lavished  upon  the  exquisite  ornaments  of  the 
court  cupboard.  In  the  following  engraving  is  exhi- 
bited one  of  the  rich  court  cupboards  of  the  period 
of  Elizabeth,  set  out  with  many  of  those  vessels  of 
antique  Italian  workmanship  which  had  found  their 
way  into  this  country. 


^^£^L^swai#r 


30 


'■r^:-My^K^- 


i-"'^^!l^^=>5^^^A: 


*  r"-  -^i^. 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — An  npenPlace  adjoining C&Tpulet's 
Garden. 

Enter  Romeo. 
Rom.  Can  I  go  forward,  when  my  heart  is 
liere  ? 
Turn  back,  dull  earth,  and  find  thy  centre  out. 
[ffi?  climbs  the  wall,  and  leaps  down  within  it. 

Enter  Benvolio  and  Mercutio. 

Ben.  Romeo  !  my  cousin  Romeo ! 

Mer.  He  is  wise ; 

And,  on  my  life,  hath  stolen  him  home  to  bed. 

Ben.  He  ran  this  way,  and  leapt  this  orchard 
wall: 
Call,  good  Mercutio. 

Mer.  Nay,  I  '11  conjure  too. 

Romeo  1  humours  !  madman  !  passion  !  lover ! 
Appear  thou  in  the  likeness  of  a  sigh. 
Speak  but  one  rhyme,  and  I  am  satisfied. 
Cry  but — Ah  me !  pronounce*  but  love  and  dove; 
Speak  to  my  gossip  Venus  one  fair  word. 
One  nick-name  for  her  purblind  son  and  heir, 
Young  Abraham *•  Cupid,  he  that  shot  so  trim. 
When  kingCophetua  lov'd  the  beggar-maid.' — 

'  (A)  hpia  pronounce ;  the  subsequent  quartos  and  the  first 
f oVio,  p}-ovaunt ;  the  second  folio  couply,  which  has  become 
the  received  reading  of  couple.  Steepens  desired  to  retain 
provant.  to  provide,  from  the  noun  provant,  provision. 

•>  All  the  old  copies  have  "  Abraham."  Upton  changed  it 
to  "  Adam,"  which  all  the  modem  editors  have  adopted,  sup- 
posing the  allusion  "  he  that  shot  so  trim,"  was  to  the  Adam 
Bell  of  the  old  Ballad,  to  whom  Shakspere  has  also  alluded 
in  Much  ado  about  Nothing:  "he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be 
clapt   on   the  shoulder  and  called   Adam.'      But  the  word 


He  heareth  not,  he  stirreth  not,  he  moveth  not ; 
The  ape*  is  dead,  and  I  must  conjure  him. — 
I  conjure  thee  by  Rosaline's  bright  eyes. 
By  her  high  forehead,  and  her  scarlet  lip, 
By  her  fine  foot,  straight  leg,  and  quivering 

thigh, 
And  the  demesnes  that  there  adjacent  lie, 
That  in  thy  likeness  thou  appear  to  us. 

Ben.  An  if  he  hear  thee,  thou  wilt  anger  him. 

Mer.  This  cannot  anger  him  :  "t  would  anger 
him 
To  raise  a  spirit  in  his  mistress'  circle 
Of  some  strange  nature,  letting  it  there  stand 
Till  she  had  laid  it,  and  conjur'd  it  down  ; 
That  were  some  spite :  my  invocation 
Is  fair  and  honest,  and,  in  his  mistress'  name, 
I  conjure  only  but  to  raise  up  him. 

Ben.  Come,  he  hath  hid  himself  among  these 
trees, 
To  be  consorted  with  the  humorous''  night: 


"  trim,"  which  is  the  reading  of  the  first  quarto  (the  subse- 
quent editions  giving  us  ^^ trite"),  is  distinctly  derived  from 
the  "  Ballad  of  King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar-maid." 
"  The  blinded  boy  that  shoots  so  Irim, 
From  heaven  down  did  hie. 
He  drew  a  dart,  and  shot  at  him. 
In  place  where  he  did  lie." 
With  all  submission  to  the  opinion  of  Percy,  who  adopts  the 
reading  of  Upton,  we  think  that  the  change  of  Abraham  into 
Adam  was  uncalled  for.    Abraham  conveys  another  idea  than 
that  of  Cupid's  archery,  which  is  strongly  enough  conveyed. 
The  "  Abraham  "  Cupidis  the  cheat — the  "  Abraham  man" — 
of  our  old  statutes. 

»  The  ape, -an  expression  of  kindly  familiarity  applied  to  a 
young  man. 
1)  Humorous,  dewy, — vaporous. 

31 


Act  11.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  I. 


Blind  is  his  love,  and  best  befits  the  dark. 
Mer.  If  love  be  blind,  love  cannot  hit  the 
mark. 
Now  will  he  sit  under  a  medlar  tree. 
And  wish  his  mistress  were  that  kind  of  fruit, 
As    maids    call    medlars,    when    they    laugh 

alone.* — 
Romeo,  good  night: — I'll  to  my  truckle-bed j^ 
This  field-bed  is  too  cold  for  me  to  sleep : 
Come,  shall  we  go  ? 

Ben.  Go,  then ;  for  't  is  in  vain 

To  seek  him  here,  that  means  not  to  be  found. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Capulet's  Garden. 
Enter  Romeo. 

Rom.  He  jests  at  scars,  that   never  felt  a 

wound. — 
[Juliet  appears  above,  at  a  windoin. 
But,  soft !  what  light  through  yonder  window 

breaks ! 
It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun  !  — 
Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 
Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 
That  thou  her  maid  art  far  more  fair  than  she : 
Be  not  her  maid,  ^  since  she  is  envious  ; 
Her  vestal  livery  is  but  sick  and  green, 
And  none  but  fools  do  wear  it ;  cast  it  off. — 
It  is  my  lady :  O,  it  is  my  love : 
O,  that  she  knew  she  were ! 
She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing ;  What  of 

that? 
Her  eye  discourses,  I  will  answer  it. — 
I  am  too  bold,  't  is  not  to  me  she  speaks : 

^  There  are  two  lines  here  omitted  in  the  text  of  Steevens' 
edition,  which  Malone  has  restored  to  the  text.  In  every 
popular  edition  of  our  poet  they  are  omitted.  The  lines  are 
gross, — but  the  grossness  is  obscure,  and,  if  it  were  under- 
stood, could  scarcely  be  called  corrupting.  The  freedoms  of 
Mercutio  arise  out  of  his  dramatic  character;  his  exuberant 
spirits  betray  him  into  levities  which  are  constantly  opposed  to 
the  intellectual  refinement  which  rises  above  such  baser  matter. 
But  Pope  rejected  these  lines — Pope,  who,  in  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  has  introduced  one  couplet,  at  least,  that  would  have 
disgraced  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  We  do  not  print  the  two 
lines  of  Shakspere,  for  they  can  only  interest  the  verbal  critic. 
But  we  distinctly  record  their  omission.  As  far  as  we  have 
been  able  to  trace — and  we  have  gone  through  the  old  edi- 
tions with  an  especial  reference  to  this  matter — these  two 
lines  constitute  the  only  passage  in  the  original  editions  which 
has  been  omitted  by  modem  editors.  With  this  exception, 
there  is  not  a  passage  in  Shakspere  which  is  not  reprinted  in 
every  edition  except  that  of  Mr.  Bowdler.  And  yet  the 
writer  in  Lardner's  Cyclopaedia  (Lives  of  Literary  and  Sci- 
entific Men),  has  ventured  to  make  the  following  assertion  : 
"  Whoever  has  looked  into  the  original  editions  of  his  dramas 
will  be  disgusted  with  the  obscenity  of  his  allusions.  They 
absolutely  teem  with  the  grossest  improprieties— more  gross 
by  far  than  can  be  found  in  any  "contemporary  "dramatist." 
The  insinuation  that  the  original  editions  contain  impro- 
prieties that  are  not  to  be  found  in  modern  editions,  is  difficult 
to  characterise  without  using  expressions  that  had  better  be 
avoided. 

^  Be  not  a  votary  to  Diana, — the 

"  Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair," 
of  Ben  Jonson's  beautiful  hymn. 
32 


Two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heaven, 
Having  some  business,  do  entreat  her  eyes 
To  twinkle  in  their  spheres  till  they  return. 
What  if  her  eyes  were  there,  they  in  her  head  ? 
The  brightness  of  her  cheek  would  shame  those 

stars, 
As  daylight  doth  a  lamp  ;  her  eye  in  heaven 
Would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright. 
That  birds  would  sing  and  think  it  were  not 

night. 
See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ! 
O,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 
That  I  might  touch  that  cheek  ! 

Jul.  Ah  me ! 

Mom.  She  speaks : — 

0,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white-upturned  wond'ring  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him. 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing^  clouds. 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

Jul.  O  Romeo,  Romeo !  wherefore  art  thou 
Romeo  ? 
Deny  thy  father,  and  refuse  thy  name; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I  '11  no  longer  be  a  Capulet. 

Mom.  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at 
this?  [Aside. 

Jul.  'T  is  but  thy  name  that  is  my  enemy ; — 
Thou  art  thyself  though,  •»  not  a  Montague. 
What 's  Montague  ?  it  is  nor  hand  nor  foot. 
Nor  arm,  nor  face,  nor  any  other  part 
Belonging  to  a  man.    O,  be  some  other  name ! ' 
What 's  in  a  name?  that  which  we  call  a  rose. 
By  any  other  name"^  would  smell  as  sweet; 
So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  call'd. 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes, 
Without  that  title  : — Romeo,  doff  thy  name  ; 
And  for  thy^  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee. 
Take  all  myself. 

Mom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word: 

Call  me  but  love,  and  I  '11  be  new  baptiz'd; 
Henceforth  I  never  will  be  Romeo. 

Jul.  What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreen'd 
in  night, ' 
So  stumblest  on  my  counsel? 

Mom.  By  a  name 

I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  am ; 


»  So  (A).    The  folio  and  (C),  pvffing. 

^  Juliet  places  his  personal  qualities  in  opposition  to  what 
she  thought  evil  of  his  family. 

■^  There  is  a  confusion  in  the  folio  and  (C),  which  Malone 
here  appears  to  have  put  right,  by  making  out  a  line,  with  the 
aid  of  (J).     The  folio  omits  "  O,  be  some  other  name!" 

<i  So  U).     The  folio  and  (C),  tvord. 

'  So  (C)  and  folio.     (A),  that. 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  II. 


My  name,  dear  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 
Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  thee ; 
Had  I  it  written  I  would  tear  the  word. 
Jul.  My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred 
words 
Of  thy  tongue's  uttering,'  yet  I  know  the  sound ; 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  maid,''  if  either  thee  dis- 
like." 
Jul.  How  cam'st  thou  hither,  teU  me  ?  and 
wherefore? 
The  orchard  waUs  are  high  and  hard  to  climb ; 
And  the  place  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er- 
perch  these  waUs ; 
For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out : 
And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt ; 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  stop^  to  me. 
Jul.  If  they  do  see  thee,  they  will  murtherthee. 
Rom.  Alack!  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords ;  look  thou  but 

sweet. 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Jul.  I  would  not  for  the  world  they  saw  thee 

here. 
Rom.  I  have  night's  cloak  to  hide  me  from 
their  eyes ;  ^ 
And,  but  thou  love  me,^  let  them  find  me  here : 
My  life  were  better  ended  by  their  hate. 
Than  death  prorogued,  wanting  of  thy  love. 
Jul.  By  whose  direction  found'st  thou  out 

this  place  ? 
Rom.  By  love,  that  first  did  prompt  me  to 
inquire ; 
He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pUot ;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  wash'd  with  the  farthest  sea, 
I  would ^  adventure  for  such  merchandise. 
Jul.  Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on 
my  face ; 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  bepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  to- 
night. 
Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form,  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke.  But  farewell  compliment  \^ 
Dost  thou  love  me?  I  know  thou  wilt  say — Ay ; 
And  I  will  take  thy  word:  yet,  if  thou  swear' st. 
Thou  may'st  prove  false  ;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     O,  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully : 

*  The   folio  and    (C),    thy   tongue's   uttering.    (A),    that 
tongue's  utterance.  •>  In  (/i),  saint. 

'  Dw/*f —Displease.         ^  In  (A),  let.        °  In  [A),  sight. 

'  But  thou  love  me So  thou  do  but  love  me. 

«  So  (A).     In  folio  and  (C),  should. 

^  Farewell  compliment — farewell  respect  for  forms. 


Or,  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I  '11  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay. 
So  thou  wilt  woo  ;  but,  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond ; 
And  therefore  thou  mayst  think  my  behaviour 

light :  . 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I  '11  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning*  to  be 

strange, 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess, 
But  that  thou  over-heard'st,  ere  I  was  ware. 
My  true  love's  passion  :  therefore  pardon  me  ; 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Wliich  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  swear,'' 
That  tips  with  silver  all  these  fruit-tree  tops, — 
Jul.  O  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  incon- 
stant moon 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb. 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 
Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 
Jul.  Do  not  swear  at  all : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  self. 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I  '11  believe  thee. 

Rom.  If  my  heart's  dear  love — 

Jul.  Well,  do  not  swear :'  although  I  joy  in 
thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night : 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvis'd,  too  sudden  ; 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  cease  to  be, 
Ere  one  can  say — It  lightens.     Sweet,  good 

night ! 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath. 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we 

meet. 
Good  night,  good  night !  as  sweet  repose  and 

rest 
Come  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast ! 
Rom.  O,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 
Jul.  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to- 
night? 
Rom.  The  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful 

vow  for  mine. 
Jul.  I  gave  thee  mine  before  thou  didst  re- 
quest it : 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Would'st  thou  withdraw  it  ?  for  what 

purpose,  love? 
Jul.  But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 
And  yet  I  wish  but  for  the  thing  I  have: 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep ;  the  more  I  give  to  thee. 


»  So  {A).     In  folio  and  {€),  coying. 
•>  So  {A),    In  folio  and  {C),  vow. 


Tragedies, — Vol.  I. 


F 


33 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III. 


The  more  I  have,  for  both  are  infinite. 

[Nurse  calls  within. 
I  hear  some  noise  within ;  Dear  love,  adieu  ! 
Anon,  good  nurse ! — Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.  {Exit, 
Rom.  O  blessed  blessed  night !  I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering  sweet  to  be  substantial. 

Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Jul.  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good 
night,  indeed. 
If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable. 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow. 
By  one  that  I  '11  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where,  and  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite ; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I  '11  lay. 
And  follow  thee  my  lord  throughout  the  world. 
Nurse.  \_Within.'\  Madam. 
Jul.  I  come,  anon : — But  if  thou  mean'stnot 
well, 
I  do  beseech  thee — 
Nurse.  \_Within.'\  Madam. 
Jul.  By  and  by,  I  come : — 

To  cease  thy  strife  and  leave  me  to  my  grief : 
To-morrow  will  I  send. 

Rom.  So  thrive  my  soul, — 

Jul.  A  thousand  times  good  night !      [Exit. 

Rom,  A  thousand  times  the  worse  to  want 

thy  light — 

Love   goes  toward  love,  as  schoolboys  from 

their  books ; 
But  love  from  love,  toward  school  with  heavy 
looks.  [^Retiring  slowly. 

Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Jul.  Hist!  Romeo,  hist! — 0,  for  a  falconer's 
voice. 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again ! ' 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud  ; 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies. 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than 

mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo.* 

Rom.  It  is  my  soul,  that  calls  upon  my  name : 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers' tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears  ! 

Jul.  Romeo. 

Rom.  My — 

Nurse.  {Within.'\  Madam. 

Jul.  What  o'clock  to-morrow'' 

Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

a  In  {A),  my  RoTneo's  name. 
''  This  passage  is  ordinarily  printed  thus: — 
Jul.  Romeo. 

Rom.  My  sweet. 

Jul.  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow — 

^ft/  sweet  was  substituted  by  the  editor  of  the  second  folio 

34 


Rom.  By  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.  I  will  not  fail ;  't  is  twenty  years  till  then . 
I  have  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 

Rom.  Letme stand  here  till  thou  remember  it. 
JuL  I  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand 
there, 
Rememb'ring  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Rom.  And  I  '11  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still 
forget. 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 
Jul.  'T  is  almost  morning,  I  would  have  thee 
gone: 
And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird ; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  little  from  her  hand, 
Like  a  poor  prisoner  in  his  twisted  gyves, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  his  liberty. 
Rom.  1  would,  I  were  thy  bird. 
Jul.  Sweet,  so  would  I : 

Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  much  cherishing. 
Good  night,  good  night !  parting  is  such  sweet 

sorrow, 
That  I  shall  say  good  night,  till  it  be  morrow. 

[Exit. 

Rom.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in 

thy  breast ! — 

'Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest ! 

Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  friar's  close'*  cell ; 

His  help  to  crave,  and  my  dear  hap  to  tell.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— Friar  Laurence'*  Cell. 

Enter  Friar  Laurence,  with  a  basket. 

Fri.  The  grey-ey'd  morn  smiles  on  the  frown- 
ing night, 
Checkering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of 

light; 
And  flecked''  darkness  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  day's  path,  and  Titan's  fiery  wheels: « 
Now  ere  the  sun  advance  his  burning  eye. 
The  day  to  cheer,  and  night's  dank  dew  to  dry, 

for  My  neece,  which  is  the  reading  of  the  first  folio,  and  of 
the  second  and  third  quartos.  In  the  first  quarto  we  have 
Madam,  which  Malone  adopts.  But  in  the  first  quarto, 
there  is  no  interruption  at  all  by  the  Nurse ;  whilst  in  the 
second  quarto,  she  has  twice  before  used  the  word  Madam-; — 
and,  consequently,  the  poet,  in  his  amended  copy,  avoided 
the  use  by  Romeo  of  a  title  which  had  just  been  used  by 
the  Nurse.  We  believe  that  the  word  Necce  is  altogether  a 
mistake, — that  the  word  Nurse  was  written,  as  denoting  a 
third  interruption  by  her — and  that  Madam,  the  use  of 
which  was  the  form  of  the  interruption,  was  omitted  acci- 
dentally, or  was  supposed  to  be,  implied  by  the  word  iVMr^e. 
As  we  have  printed  the  passage  the  metre  is  correct ;  and 
it  is  to  be  observed  that  in  the  second  quarto  and  the  sub. 
sequent  copies,  at  before  "  what  o'clock,"  which  was  in  the 
first  quarto,  is  omitted,  shewing  that  a  word  of  two  syllables 
was  wanted  after  my  when  at  was  rejected.  Zachary  Jack- 
son, instead  of  niece,  would  read  novice. 

a  {A),  "  ghostly  father's  cell." 

i"  Flecked — dapplec^. 

■^  So  {A).  It  is  remarkable  that  in  the  folio  and  (C),  these 
four  lines,  with  a  slight  alteration,  are  also  introduced  before 
the  two  last  lines  of  Romeo's  previous  speech.  It  appears  to 
us  that  the  poet  was  making  experiments  upon  the  margin 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III. 


I  must  up-fiU  this  osier  cage  of  ours, 
With  baleful  weeds,  and  precious-juiced  flowers. 
The  earth,  that 's  nature's  mother,  is  her  tomb;^ 
"What  is  her  burying  grave,  that  is  her  womb : 
And  from  her  womb  children  of  divers  kind 
We  sucking  on  her  natural  bosom  find : 
Many  for  many  virtues  excellent. 
None  but  for  some,  and  yet  all  difierent.* 
O,  mickle  is  the  powerful  grace,  that  lies 
In  plants,  herbs,  stones,  and  their  true  quali- 
ties: 
For  nought  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live, 
But  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give  ; 
Nor  aught  so  good,  but,  strain'd  from  that  fair 

use, 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse: 
Virtue  itself  turns  vice,  being  misapplied ; 
And  vice  sometime 's  by  action  dignified. 
Within  the  infant  rind  of  this  weak*"  flower 
Poison  hath  residence,  and  medicine  power : 
For  this,  being  smelt,  with  that  part  cheers 

each  part ; 
Being  tasted,  slays  all  senses  with  the  heart. 
Two  such  opposed  kings'^  encamp  them  still 
In  man  as  well  as  herbs, — grace,  and  rude 

will; 
And,  where  the  worser  is  predominant, 
Full  soon  the  canker  death  eats  up  that  plant. 

Enter  Romeo. 

Rom.  Good  morrow,  father ! 

Fri.  Benedicite ! 

What  early  tongue  so,  sweet  saluteth  me  ? — 
Young  son,  it  argues  a  distemper'd  head, 
So  soon  to  bid  good  morrow  ,to  thy  bed : 
Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye, 
And  where  care  lodges,  sleep  will  never  lie ; 
But  where  unbruised  youth  with  unstufi^d  brain 
Doth  couch  his  limbs,  there  golden  sleep  doth 

reign : 
Therefore  thy  earliness  doth  me  assure, 
Thou  art  up-rous'd  by  some  distemp'rature, 
Or  if  not  so,  then  here  I  hit  it  right — 
Our  Romeo  hath  not  been  in  bed  to-night, 

Rom.  That  last  is  true,  the  sweeter  rest  was 
mine. 

of  the  first  copy  of  the  change  of  a  word  or  so,  and  leaving 
the  MS.  upon  the  page,  without  obliterating  the  original 
passage,  it  came  to  be  inserted  twice.     The  lines,  as  given  to 

Romeo,  stand  thus  in  the  quarto  of  1609,  and  in  the  folio: 

"The  grey-ey'd  mom  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Checkering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light; 
And  darkness  fleckel'd,  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  day's  path-way,  made  by  Titan's  wheels." 
a  Six  lines,  ending  with  this  line,  are  not  in  {A). 
•>  In  (A),  small. 

1°  (^)>  foes.  In  the  other  ancient  editions,  kings. 
Opposed /oes  has  not  the  propriety  of  opposed  kings  —  a 
thoroughly  Shaksperean  phrase. 


Fri.  God  pardon  sin !  wast  thou  with  Rosa- 
line? 

Rom.  With  Rosaline,  my  ghostly  father?  no ; 
I  have  forgot  that  name,  and  that  name's  woe. 

Fri.  That's  my  good  son:  But  where  hast 
thou  been  then  ? 

Rom.  I  '11  tell  thee,  ere  thou  ask  it  me  again. 
I  have  been  feasting  with  mine  enemy ; 
Where,  on  a  sudden,  one  hath  wounded  me, 
That 's  by  me  wounded ;  both  our  remedies 
Within  thy  help  and  holy  physic  lies  ;6 
I  bear  no  hatred,  blessed  man ;  for,  lo, 
My  intercession  likewise  steads  my  foe. 

Fri.  Be  plain,  good  son,  and  homely  in  thy 
drift; 
Riddling  confession  finds  but  riddling  shrift. 

Rom.  Then  plainly  know,  my  heart's  dear 
love  is  set 
On  the  fair  daughter  of  rich  Capulet : 
As  mine  on  hers,  so  hers  is  set  on  mine ; 
And  all  combin'd,  save  what  thou  must  combrae 
By  holy  marriage :  When,  and  where,  and  how, 
We  met,  we  woo'd,  and  made  exchange  of  vow, 
I  '11  tell  thee  as  we  pass  ;  but  this  I  pray. 
That  thou  consent  to  marry  us  to-day. 

Fri.  Holy  Saint  Francis !  what  a  change  is 
here ! 
Is  Rosaline,  that  thou  didst  love  so  dear, 
So  soon  forsaken  ?  young  men's  love  then  lies 
Not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in  their  eyes. 
Jesu  Maria  I  what  a  deal  of  brine 
Hath  wash'd  thy  sallow  cheeks  for  Rosaline ! 
How  much  salt  water  thrown  away  in  waste, 
To  season  love,  that  of  it  doth  not  taste ! 
The  sun  not  yet  thy  sighs  from  heaven  clears. 
Thy  old  groans  ring  yet  in  my  ancient  ears ; 
Lo,  here  upon  thy  cheek  the  stain  doth  sit 
Of  an  old  tear  that  is  not  wash'd  off"  yet : 
If  e'er  thou  wast  thyself,  and  these  woes  thine. 
Thou  and  these  woes  were  all  for  Rosaline  ; 
And  art  thou  chang'd  ?  pronounce  this  sentence 

then — 
Women  may  fall,  when  there  's  no  strength  in 
men. 

Rom.  Thou  chidd'st  me  oft  for  loving  Rosa- 
line. 

Fri.  For  doting,  not  for  loving,  pupil  mine. 

Rom.  And  bad'st  me  bury  love. 

Fri.  Not  in  a  grave 

To  lay  one  in,  another  out  to  have. 

Rom.  I  pray  thee,  chide  not :  she,  whom  I 
love  now. 
Doth  grace  for  grace,  and  love  for  love,  allow ; 
The  other  did  not  so. 

Fri.  O,  she  knew  well, 

35 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


Thy  love  did  read  by  rote,  and  could  not  spell. 
But  come,  young  waverer,  come,  go  with  me, 
In  one  respect  I  '11  thy  assistant  be ; 
For  this  alliance  may  so  happy  prove. 
To  turn  your  households'  rancour  to  pure  love. 
Ram.  O,  let  us  hence;  I  stand  on  sudden 

haste. 
Fri.  Wisely,  and  slow ;  They  stumble,  that 
run  fast.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— ^  Street. 
Enter  Benvolio  and  Meecutio. 

Mer.  Where  the  devil  should  this  Romeo 
be?— 
Came  he  not  home  to-night? 

Ben.  Not  to  his  father's;  I  spoke  with  his 
man. 

Mer.   Why,   that  same  pale  hard-hearted 
wench,  that  Rosaline, 
Torments  him  so,  that  he  will  sure  run  mad. 

Ben.  Tybalt,  the  kinsman  of  old  Capulet, 
Hath  sent  a  letter  to  his  father's  house. 

Mer.  A  challenge,  on  my  life. 

Ben.  Romeo  will  answer  it. 

Mer.  Any  man,  that  can  write,  may  answer 
a  letter. 

Ben.  Nay,  he  will  answer  the  letter's  master, 
how  he  dares,  being  dared. 

Mer.  Alas,  poor  Romeo,  he  is  abeady  dead ! 
stabbed  with  a  white  wench's  black  eye ;  run^ 
thorough  the  ear  with  a  love-song ;  the  very 
pin*"  of  his  heart  cleft  with  the  blind  bow-boy's 
butt-shaft ;  And  is  he  a  man  to  encounter  Ty- 
balt? 

Ben.  Why,  what  is  Tybalt? 

Mer.  More  than  prince  of  cats,"  I  can  tell 
you.  O,  he  is  the  courageous  captain  of  com- 
pliments. He  fights  as  you  sing  prick-song,"^ 
keeps  time,  distance,  and  proportion;  rests  me 
his  minim  rest,  one,  two,  and  the  third  in  your 
bosom :  the  very  butcher  of  a  silk  button,  a 
duellist,  a  duellist ;'  a  gentleman  of  the  very  first 
house, — of  the  first  and  second  cause  :  Ah,  the 
immortal  passado  !  the  puncto  reverse !  the  hay ! 

Ben.  The  what? 

Mer.  The  pox  of  such  antic,  lisping,  affect- 
ing fantasticoes !  these  new  tuners  of  accents ! — 
By  Jesu,  a  very  good  blade ! — a  very  tall  man ! — 
a  very  good  whore ! — Why,  is  not  this  a  lament- 


»  Run.    This  is  the  readingof  the  folio  and  {€).  Shot  in  {A). 

*  The  centre  of  the  target,  where  the  pin  fastened  the 
clout. 

'^  Tybert  is  the  name  given'  to  the  cat  in  the  story  of 
Reynard  the  Fox. 

d  Prick-song,  music  pricked,  or  noted  down,  so  as  to 
read  according  to  rule ;  in  contradistinction  to  music  learnt 
by  the  ear,  or  siuig  from  memory. 

36 


able  thing,  grandsLre,  that  we  should  be  thus 
afilicted  with  these  strange  flies,  these  fashion- 
mongers,  \he?,e pardon-mes,  who  stand  so  much 
on  the  new  form,  that  they  cannot  sit  at  ease 
on  the  old  bench?  O,  their  bons,  their  bons  ! 

Enter  Romeo. 

Ben.  Here  comes  Romeo,  here  comes  Ro- 
meo. 

Mer.  Without  his  roe,  like  a  dried  her- 
ring : — O,  flesh,  flesh,  how  art  thou  fisliified ! — 
Now  is  he  for  the  numbers  that  Petrarch  flowed 
in :  Laura,  to  his  lady,  was  but  a  kitchen- 
wench  ; — marry,  she  had  a  better  love  to  be- 
rhyme her ;  Dido,  a  dowdy ;  Cleopatra,  a 
gipsy ;  Helen  and  Hero,  hildings  and  harlots : 
Thisbe,  a  grey  eye  or  so,*  but  not  to  the  pur- 
pose.— Signior  Romeo,  bon  jour!  there  's  a 
French  salutation  to  your  French  slop.  You 
gave  us  the  counterfeit  fairly  last  night. 

Rom.  Good  morrow  to  you  both.  What 
counterfeit  did  I  give  you  ? 

Mer.  The  slip,  sir,  the  slip;*  Can  you  not 
conceive  ? 

Rom.  Pardon,  good  Mercutio,  my  business 
was  great ;  and,  in  such  a  case  as  mine,  a  man 
may  strain  courtesy. 

Mer.  That 's  as  much  as  to  say — such  a  case 
as  yours  constrains  a  man  to  bow  in  the  hams. 

Rom.  Meaning — to  court'sy. 

Mer.  Thou  hast  most  kindly  hit  it. 

Rom.  A  most  courteous  exposition. 

Mer.  Nay,  I  am  the  very  pink  of  courtesy. 

Rom.  Pink  for  flower. 

Mer.  Right. 

Rom.  Why,  then  is  my  pump  well  flowered.'' 

Mer.  Sure  wit."^  Follow  me  this  jest  now, 
till  thou  hast  worn  out  thy  pump ;  that,  when 
the  single  sole  of  it  is  worn,  the  jest  may  re- 
main, after  the  wearing,  sole  singular. 

Rom.  O  single-soled  jest,  solely  singular  for 
the  singleness ! 

Mer.  Come  between  us,  good  Benvolio;  my 
wits  faint."^ 

Rom.  Switch  and  spurs,  switch  and  spurs ; 
or  I  '11  cry  a  match. 

Mer.  Nay,  if  our  wits  run  the  wild-goose 
chase,^  I  am  done ;  for  thou  hast  more  of  the 
wild-goose  in  one  of  thy  wits,  than,  I  am  sure,  I 
have  in  my  whole  five :  Was  I  with  you  there 
for  the  goose  ? 

*  The  grey  eye — the  blue  eye — was  the  most  beautifuL 
In  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  Venus  says,  "Mine  eyes  are 
grey." 

b  The  pump  was  the  shoe.  We  retain  the  word.  The 
ribbons  in  the  pump  were  shaped  as  flowers. 

"  In  {A),  Well  said. 

<^  Faint  in  folio  and  {€}.    In  {A),  fail. 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


R<mi.  Thou  wast  never  with  me  for  anything, 
when  thou  wast  not  there  for  the  goose. 

Mer.  I  will  bite  thee  by  the  ear  for  that  jest. 

Rom.  Nay,  good  goose,  bite  not. 

Mer.  Thy  wit  is  a  very  bitter  sweeting  f  it 
is  a  most  sharp  sauce. 

Rom.  And  is  it  not  well  served  in  to  a  sweet 
goose  ? 

Mer.  O,  here's  a  wit  of  cheverel, b  that 
stretches  from  an  inch  narrow  to  an  ell  broad ! 

Rom.  I  stretch  it  out  for  that  word — broad  ; 
which  added  to  the  goose,  proves  thee  far  and 
wide  a  broad  goose. 

Mer.  Why,  isnot  this  better  now  than  groan- 
ing for  love  ?'o  now  art  thou  sociable,  now  art 
thou  Romeo ;  now  art  thou  what  thou  art,  by 
art  as  well  as  by  nature :  for  this  drivelling  love 
is  like  a  great  natural,  that  runs  lolling  up  and 
do'wn  to  hide  his  bauble  in  a  hole. 

Ben.  Stop  there,  stop  there. 

Mer.  Thou  desirest  me  to  stop  in  my  tale 
against  the  hair. 

Ben.  Thou  would' st  else  have  made  thy  tale 
large. 

Mer.  O,  thou  art  deceived,  I  would  have 
made  it  short:  for  I  was  come  to  the  whole 
depth  of  my  tale :  and  meant,  indeed,  to  oc- 
cupy the  argument  no  longer. 

Rom.  Here's  goodly  gear ! 

Enter  NuRSE  and  Peter. 

M'ei-.  A  sail,  a  sad,  a  sail ! 

Ben.  Two,  two  ;  a  shirt,  and  a  smock. 

Nurse.  Peter! 

Peter.  Anon? 

Nurse.  My  fan,  Peter,  u 

Mer.  Good  Peter,  to  hide  her  face ;  for  her 
fan  's  the  fairer  face.*^ 

Nurse.  God  ye  good  morrow,  gentlemen. 

Mer.  God  ye  good  den,  fair  gentlewoman. 

Nurse.  Is  it  good  den  V^ 

Mer.  'T  is  no  less,  I  tell  you  ;  for  the  bawdy 
hand  of  the  dial  is  now  upon  the  prick  of  noon. 

Nurse,  Out  upon  you !  what  a  man  are  you  ? 

Rom.  One,  gentlewoman,  that  God  hath 
made  himself  to  mar. 

Nurse,  By  my  troth,  it  is  well  said : — For 
liimself  to  mar,  quoth'a?  —  Gentlemen,  can 
any  of  you  tell  me  where  I  may  find  the  young 
Romeo  ? 

Rom.  I  can  tell  you ;  but  young  Romeo  will 
be  older  when  you  have  found  him,  than  he 

*  The  name  of  an  apple. 

•>  Kid  leather— from  ckevreuiU — a  roebuck. 

'  See  Introductory  Notice. 


was  when  you  sought  him  :  I  am  the  youngest 
of  that  name,  for  'fault  of  a  worse. 

Nurse.  You  say  well. 

Mer.  Yea,  is  the  worst  well  ?  very  well  took, 
r faith;  wisely,  wisely. 

Nurse.  If  you  be  he,  sir,  I  desu-e  some  con- 
fidence with  you. 

Ben.  She  will  indite  him  to  some  supper. 

Mer.  A  bawd,  a  bawd,  a  bawd !     So  ho  ! 

Rom.  ^Yliat  hast  thou  found? 

Mer.  No  hare,  sir ;  unless  a  hare,  sir,  in  a 
lenteu  pie,  that  is  something  stale  and  hoar  ere 
it  be  spent. 

An  old  hare  hoar. 

And  an  old  hare  hoar. 
Is  very  good  meat  in  Lent : 

But  a  hare  that  is  hoar. 

Is  too  much  for  a  score, 
When  it  hoars  ere  it  be  spent — 

Romeo,  will  you  come  to  your  father's  ?  we  '11 
to  dinner  thither. 

Rom.  I  wiU  follow  you. 

Mer,  Farewell,  ancient  lady ;  farewell,  lady, 
lady,  lady. 
{^Exeunt  Mebcutio  and  Benvolio. 

Nurse.  Marry,  farewell! — I  pray  you,  sir, 
what  saucy  merchant' ^  was  this,  that  was  so 
full  of  liis  ropery  ? 

Rom.  A  gentleman,  nurse,  that  loves  to  hear 
himself  talk ;  and  wUl  speak  more  in  a  minute, 
than  he  will  stand  to  in  a  month. 

Nurse.  An  'a  speak  anything  against  me, 
I  '11  take  him  down  an  'a  were  lustier  than  he 
is,  and  twenty  such  Jacks ;  and  if  I  cannot, 
I  '11  find  those  that  shall.  Scurvy  knave  !  I 
am  none  of  his  flirt-gills;  I  am  none  of  his 
skains-mates : — And  thou  must  stand  by  too, 
and  sufier  every  knave  to  use  me  at  his  pleasure  ? 

Pet.  I  saw  no  man  use  you  at  his  pleasure : 
if  I  had,  my  weapon  should  quickly  have  been 
out,  I  warrant  you :  I  dare  draw  as  soon  as 
another  man,  if  I  see  occasion  in  a  good  quarrel, 
and  the  law  on  my  side. 

Nurse.  Now,  afore  God,  I  am  so  vexed,  that 
every  part  about  me  quivers.  Scurvy  knave  ! — 
Pray  you,  sir,  a  word :  and  as  I  told  you,  my 
young  lady  bade  me  inquire  you  out ;  what  she 
bade  me  say,  I  will  keep  to  myself:  but  first 
let  me  tell  ye,  if  ye  should  lead  her  into  a 
fool's  paradise,  as  they  say,  it  were  a  very  gross 
kind  of  behaviour,  as  they  say  :  for  the  gentle- 
woman is  young ;  and,  therefore,  if  you  should 
deal  double  with  her,  truly  it  were  an  ill  thing 
to  be  offered  to  any  gentlewoman,  and  very 
weak  dealing. 

Rom,  Nurse,  commend  me  to  thy  lady  and 
mistress.     I  protest  unto  thee, — 

37 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


Nurse.  Good  heart !  and,  i'  faith,  I  will  tell 
her  as  much :  Lord,  lord,  she  will  be  a  joyful 
woman. 

Rom.  What  wilt  thou  tell  her,  nurse  ?  thou 
dost  not  mark  me. 

Nurse.  I  will  tell  her,  sir, — that  you  do  pro- 
test; which,  as  I  take  it, 'is  a  gentlemanlike 
offer. 
Rom.  Bid  her  devise  some  means  to  come 
to  shrift 
This  afternoon ; 

And  there  she  shall  at  Friar  Laurence'  cell 
Be  shriv'd,    and   married.      Here  is   for  thy 
pains. 
Nurse.  No,  truly,  sir  ;  not  a  penny. 
Rom.  Go  to ;  I  say,  you  shall. 
Nurse.  This  afternoon,  sir?  well,  she  shall 
be  there. 
Rom.  And  stay,    good   nurse,   behind  the 
abbey-wall : 
Within  this  hour  my  man  shall  be  with  thee ; 
And  bring  thee  cords  made  like  a  tackled  stair : 
Which  to  the  high  top-gallant  of  my  joy 
Must  be  my  convoy  in  the  secret  night. 
Farewell !— Be  trusty,  and  I  '11  quite  thy  pains. 
Farewell ! — Commend  me  to  thy  mistress. 
Nurse.  Now,  God  in  heaven  bless  thee ! — 

Hark  you,  sir. 
Rom.  What  say'st  thou,  my  dear  nurse  ? 
Nurse.  Is  your  man  secret  ?     Did  you  ne'er 
hear  say 
Two  may  keep  counsel,  putting  one  away  ? 
Rom.  I  warrant  thee ;  my  man  's  as  true  as 

steel. 
Nurse.  Well,  sir ;  my  mistress  is  the  sweetest 
lady — Lord,  lord ! — when  't  was  a  little  prating 
thing, — O,  there  's  a  nobleman  in  town,  one 
Paris,  that  would  fain  lay  knife  aboard ;  but 
she,  good  soul,  had  as  lieve  see  a  toad,  a  very 
toad,  as  see  him.  I  anger  her  sometimes,  and 
tell  her  that  Paris  is  the  properer  man:  but 
I  '11  warrant  you,  when  I  say  so,  she  looks  as 
pale  as  any  clout  in  the  varsal  world.  Doth 
not  rosemary  and  Romeo  begin  both  with  a 
letter  ? 

Rom.  Ay,  nurse  ;  What  of  that  ?  both  with 
an  R. 

Nurse.  Ah,  mocker !  that 's  the  dog's  name. 
R  is  for  the  dog."  No  ;  I  know  it  begins  with 
some  other  letter :  and  she  hath  the  prettiest 
sententious  of  it,  of  you  and  rosemary,  that  it 
would  do  you  good  to  hear  it.* 

Rom.  Commend  me  to  thy  lady.  [Exit. 

'  All  this  dialogue,  from  "  Commend  me  to  thy  mistress," 
is  not  in  (A). 

38 


Nurse.  Ay,  a  thousand  times. — Peter ! 

Pet.  Anon  ? 

Nurse.  Before,  and  apace.*  [Exeunt, 

SCENE  v.— Capulet'5  Garden.  j 

Enter  Juliet. 

Jul.  The  clock  struck  nine,  when  I  did  send 

the  nurse ; 
In  half  an  hour  she  promis'd  to  return. 
Perchance  she  cannot  meet  him : — that 's  not 

so. — 
O,    she   is  lame !     love's   heralds    should    be 

thoughts,  b 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's 

beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low'ring  hills  : 
Tlierefore  do  nimble-pinion'd doves  draw  love,'' 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings. 
Now  is  the  sun  upon  tlie  highmost  hdl 
Of  this  day's  journey ;    and  from  nine   till 

twelve 
Is  three  long  hours, — yet  she  is  not  come. 
Had  she  affections,  and  warm  youthful  blood. 
She  'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  would  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 
And  his  to  me : 

But  old  folks,  many  feign  as  they  were  dead ; 
Unwieldy,  slow,  heavy  and  pale  as  lead. 

Enter  Nubse  and  Peteb. 

O    God,  she  comes! — O  honey  nurse,   what 

news? 
Hast  thou  met  with  him  ?    Send  thy  man  away. 
Nurse.  Petei",  stay  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  Peter. 
Jul.  Now,  good  sweet  nurse, — O  lord !  why 
look'st  thou  sad  ? 
Though  news  be  sad,  yet  tell  them  merrily ; 
If  good,  thou  sham'st  the  music  of  sweet  news 
By  playing  it  to  me  with  so  sour  a  face. 

Nurse.  I  am  aweary,  give  me  leave  a  while ; — 
Fie,  how  my  bones  ache !    What  a  jaunt  have 
I  had ! 
Jul.  1  would  thou  hadst  my  bones,  and  I  thy 
news: 
Nay,  come,  I  pray  thee,  speak ; — good,  good 
nurse,  speak. 
Nurse.  Jesu,  wh^t  haste  ?  can  you  not  stay 
a  while  ? 
Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  out  of  breath  ? 


'  See  Introductory  Notice. 

•>  In  (A),  Juliet's  soliloquy  ends  here. 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  VI. 


Jul.  How  art  thou  out  of  breath,  when  thou 
hast  breath 
To  say  to  me — that  thou  art  out  of  breath? 
The  excuse  that  thou  dost  make  in  this  delay 
Is  longer  than  the  tale  thou  dost  excuse. 
Is  thy  news  good,  or  bad  ?  answer  to  that ; 
Say  either,  and  I  '11  stay  the  circumstance : 
Let  me  be  satisfied,  Is 't  good  or  bad  ? 

Nurse.  Well,  you  have  made  a  simple  choice ; 
you  know  not  how  to  choose  a  man  :  Romeo ! 
no,  not  he  ;  though  his  face  be  better  than  any 
man's,  yet  his  leg  excels  all  men's ;  and  for  a 
hand,  and  a  foot,  and  a  body, — though  they  be 
not  to  be  talked  on,  yet  they  are  past  compare : 
He  is  not  the  flower  of  courtesy,  — but,  I  '11 
warrant  him,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb. — Go  thy 
ways,  wench ;  serve  God. — What,  have  you 
dined  at  home ! 

Jul.  No,  no :  But  all  this  did  I  know  before ; 

What  says  he  of  our  marriage  ?  what  of  that  ? 

Nurse.  Lord,  how  my  head  aches !  what  a 

head  have  I ! 

It  beats  as  it  would  fall  in  twenty  pieces. 

My  back  o'  t'  other  side, — O,  my  back,  my 

back ! — 
Beshrew  your  heart,  for  sending  me  about, 
To  catch  my  death  with  jaunting  up  and  down ! 
Jul,  I' faith,  I  am  sorry  that  thou  art  not 
well: 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  nurse,  tell  me,  what  says 
my  love  ? 
Nurse.  Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gen- 
tleman, 
And  a  courteous,  and  a  kind,  and  a  handsome, 
And,  I  warrant,  a  virtuous : — Where  is  your 
mother  ? 
Jul.  Where   is  my   mother? — why,  she  is 
within ; 
Where  should  she  be?  How  oddly  thou  reply 'st: 
Your  love  says  like  an  honest  gentleman, — 
Where  is  your  mother  ? 

Nurse.  O,  God's  lady  dear  ! 

Are  you  so  hot?     Marry,  come  up,  I  trow  ; 
Is  this  the  poultice  for  my  aching  bones  ? 
Henceforward  do  your  messages  yourself. 
Jul.  Here 's  such  a  coil, — Come,  what  says 

Romeo  ? 
Nurse.  Have  you  got  leave  to  go  to  shrift 

to-day  ? 
Jul.  I  have. 

Nurse.  Then  hie  you  hence  to  friar  Laurence' 
cell. 
There  stays  a  husband  to  make  you  a  wife : 
Now   comes  the   wanton   blood  up   in    your 
cheeks, 


They  '11  be  in  scarlet  straight  at  any  news. 
Hie  you  to  church ;  I  must  another  way 
To  fetch  a  ladder,  by  the  which  your  love 
Must  climb  a  bird's  nest  soon,  when  it  is  dark : 
I  am  the  drudge,  and  toil  in  your  deUght ; 
But  you  shall  bear  the  burthen  soon  at  night. 
Go,  I  '11  to  dinner  ;  hie  you  to  the  cell. 
Jul.  Hie   to  high   fortune ! — honest  nurse, 
farewell.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  \l.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell. 

Enter  Friar  Laurence  and  Romeo." 

Fri.  So  smile  the  heavens  upon  this  holy  act 
That  after-hours  with  sorrow  chide  us  not ! 

Rom.  Amen,  amen !  but  come  what  sorrow 
can, 
It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy 
That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight : 
Do  thou  but  close  our  hands  with  holy  words. 
Then  love-devouring  death  do  what  he  dare. 
It  is  enough  I  may  but  call  her  mine. 

Fri.  These  violent  delights  have  violent  ends. 
And  in  their  triumph  die  ;  like  fire  and  powder, 
Which,  as  they  kiss,  consume :  The  sweetest 

honey 
Is  loathsome  in  his  own  deliciousness. 
And  in  the  taste  confounds  the  appetite : 
Therefore,  love  moderately ;  long  love  doth  so ; 
Too  swift  arrives  as  tardy  as  too  slow. 

Enter  Juliet. 

Here  comes  the  lady ; — O,  so  light  a  foot 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint : 
A  lover  may  bestride  the  gossamers 
That  idle  in  the  wanton  summer  air. 
And  yet  not  fall ;  so  light  is  vanity. 

Jul.  Good  even  to  my  ghostly  confessor. 

Fri.  Romeo  shall  thank  thee,  daughter,  for 
us  both. 

Jul.  As  much  to  him,  else  are  his  thanks  too 
much. 

Rom.  Ah,  Juliet,  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbour  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Jul.  Conceit,  more  rich  in  matter  than  in 
words. 
Brags  of  his  substance,  not  of  ornament  : 
They  are  but  beggars  that  can   count  their 
worth; 

»  This  scene  was  entirely  re-written,  after  the  first  copy. 

89 


Act  II.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  VI. 


But  my  true  love  is  grown  to  such  excess, 
I  cannot  sum  up  half  my  sum  of  wealth. 
Fri.  Come,  come,  with  me,  and  we  will  make 
short  work ; 


For,  by  your  leaves,  you  shall  not  stay  alone. 
Till  holy  church  incorporate  tsvo  in  one. 

{^Exeunt. 


40 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF   ACT   IL 


'  Scene  I. — "WhmKing  Cophetualov'dthe  beggar- 
maid.''' 

The  ballad  of  King  Cophetua  and  the  beggar-maid 
was  amongst  the  most  popular  of  old  English  bal- 
lads, allusions  to  which  were  familiar  to  Shakspere's 
audience.  Upon  the  authority  of  learned  Master 
"  Moth  "  in  Love's  Labour  's  Lost,  it  was  an  ancient 
ballad  in  Shakspere's  day : 

"  Armado.  Is  there  not  a  ballad,  boy,  of  the  King  and  the 
Beggar  ? 

Moth.  The  world  was  very  guilty  of  such  a  ballad  some 
three  ages  since ;  but,  I  think,  now  't  is  not  to  be  found,  or,  if 
it  were,  it  would  neither  serve  for  the  writing  nor  the  tune. 

Arm.  I  will  have  that  subject  newly  writ  o'er." 

We  have  two  versions  of  this  ballad  : — the  one  pub- 
lished in  a  "  A  Collection  of  Old  Ballads,"  1765 ;  the 
other  in  Percy's  Reliques.  Both  of  these  compo- 
sitions appear  as  if  they  had  been  "  newly  writ  o'er  " 
not  long  before,  or,  perhaps,  after  Shakspere's  time  : 
we  subjoin  a  stanza  of  each. 

FHOM    PERCY'S    RELIQUES. 

"  I  read  that  cnce  in  Africa 

A  princely  wight  did  reign. 
Who  had  to  name  Cophetua, 

As  poets  they  did  feign : 
From  nature's  laws  he  did  decline. 
For  sure  he  was  not  of  my  mind, 
He  cared  not  for  womankind. 

But  did  them  all  disdain. 
But  mark,  what  happen'd  on  a  day, 
As  he  out  of  his  window  lay, 
He  saw  a  beggar  all  in  grey, 

The  which  did  cause  him  pain. 
The  blinded  boy,  that  shoots  so  trim, 

From  heaven  down  did  hie. 
He  drew  a  dart  and  shot  at  him. 

In  place  where  he  did  lie." 


FROM    A    COLLECTION    OF    OLD    BALLADS. 

"  A  king  once  reign'd  beyond  the  seas, 
As  we  in  ancient  stories  find. 
Whom  no  fair  face  could  ever  please. 
He  cared  not  for  womankind. 
He  despis'd  the  sweetest  beauty, 
And  the  greatest  fortune  too ; 
At  length  he  married  to  a  beggar; 
See  what  Cupid's  dart  can  do. 
The  blind  boy,  that  shoots  so  trim. 
Did  to  his  closet- window  steal. 
And  made  him  soon  his  power  feel. 
He  that  never  cared  for  women, 
But  did  females  ever  hate. 
At  length  was  smitten,  wounded,  swooned. 
For  a  beggar  at  his  gate." 
Tragedies Vol.  I.        G 


^  Scene  L — "I'll  to  my  truckle-bed," 

The  original  quarto  has  "  I  '11  to  my  trundle-hed." 
It  appears  somewhat  strange  that  Mercutio  should 
speak  of  sleeping  in  a  truckle-bed,  or  a  trundle-bed, 
both  which  words  explain  the  sort  of  bed — a  running- 
bed.  The  furniture  of  a  sleeping  chamber  in  Shak- 
spere's time  consisted  of  a  standing-bed  and  a 
truckle-bed,  "  There  's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his 
castle,  his  standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed,"  says 
mine  host  of  the  Garter,  in  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  The  standing-bed  was  for  the  master ;  the 
truckle-bed,  which  ran  under  it,  for  the  servant.  It 
may  seem  strange,  therefore,  that  Mercutio  should 
talk  of  sleeping  in  the  bed  of  his  page ;  but  the  next 
words  will  solve  the  difficulty  : 

"  This Jield-bed  is  too  cold  for  me  to  sleep." 

The  field-bed,  in  this  case,  was  the  ground ;  but  the 
field-bed,  properly  so  called,  was  the  travelling-bed ; 
the  lit  de  champ,  called,  in  old  English,  the  "trus- 
syng-bedde."  The  bed  next  beyond  the  luxury  of 
the  trussyng-bed  was  the  truckle-bed;  and  therefore 
Shakspere  naturally  takes  that  in  preference  to  the 
standing-bed. 

^  Scene  II. — "  Well,  do  not  swear,"  Sec. 
Coleridge  has  a  beautiful  remark  on  this  passage, 
and  on  the  whole  of  the  scene,  which  we  extract : — 
"  With  love,  pure  love,  there  is  always  an  anxiety 
for  the  safety  of  the  object,  a  disinterestedness,  by 
which  it  is  distinguished  from  the  counterfeits  of  its 
name.     Compare  this  scene  with  Act  II L  Scene  I. 

41 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


of  the  Tempest.  I  do  not  know  a  more  wonderful 
instance  of  Shakspere's  mastery  in  playing  a  dis- 
tinctly rememberable  variety  on  the  same  remem- 
bered air,  than  in  the  transporting  love  confessions 
of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  Ferdinand  and  Miranda. 
There  seems  more  passion  in  the  one,  and  more  dig- 
nity in  the  other ;  yet  you  feel  that  the  sweet  girlish 
lingering  and  busy  movement  of  Juliet,  and  the 
calmer  and  more  maidenly  fondness  of  Miranda, 
might  easily  pass  into  each  other." 

'  Scene  II. — "  0,for  a  falconer's  voice, 

To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  hack  again ! " 

The  falconer's  voice  was  the  voice  which  the  hawk 
was  constrained  by  long  habit  to  obey.  Gervase 
Markham,  in  his  "  Country  Contentments,"  has  pic- 
turesquely described  the  process  of  training  hawks  to 
this  obedience,  "  by  watching  and  keeping  them  from 
sleep,  by  a  continual  carrying  them  upon  your  fist, 
and  by  a  most  familiar  stroking  and  playing  with 
them,  with  the  wing  of  a  dead  fowl,  or  such  like,  and 
by  often  gazing  and  looking  them  in  the  face,  with 
a  loving  and  gentle  countenance.  A  hawk  so 
"  manned"  was  brought  to  the  lure  "  by  easy  de- 
grees, and  at  last  was  taught  to  know  the  voice  and 
lure  so  perfectly,  that  either  upon  the  sound  of  the 
one  or  sight  of  the  other,  she  will  presently  come  in, 
and  be  most  obedient.  There  is  a  peculiar  propriety 
in  Juliet  calling  Romeo  her  tassel-gentle;  for  this 
species  was  amongst  the  most  beautiful  and  elegant 
of  hawks,  and  was  especially  appropriated  to  the  use 
of  a'prince.  Our  poet  always  uses  the  images  which 
have  been  derived  from  his  own  experience,  with  ex- 
quisite propriety.  In  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor, 
Falstaff's  page  is  the  ctjas-tnusket,  the  smallest  un- 
fledged hawk.  Othello  fears  that  Desdomena  is 
haggard — that  is,  the  wild  hawk  which   "  checks  at 


every  feather."     The  sport  with  a  tassel-gentle  is 
spiritedly  described  by  Massinger : — • 

" Then,  for  an  evening  flight, 


A  tiercel  gentle,  which  I  call,  my  masters. 

As  he  were  sent  a  messenger  to  the  moon. 

In  such  a  place  flies,  as  he  seems  to  say. 

See  me,  or  see  me  not !  the  partridge  sprung. 

He  makes  his  stoop  ;  but,  wanting  breath,  is  forced 

To  canceller ;  then,  with  such  speed  as  if 

He  carried  lightning  in  his  wings,  he  strikes 

The  trembling  bird,  who  even  in  death  appears 

Proud  to  be  made  his  quarry." 

5  Scene  III. — ^'Thc  earth,  that's  nature's  mother, 
is  her  tomb." 

Milton,  in  the  second  book  of  Paradise  Lost  has 
the  same  idea: — 

"  The  womb  of  nature,  and,  perhaps,  her  grave." 
The  editors  of  Milton  have  given  a  parallel  passage 
in  Lucretius, 

"  Omniparens,  eadem  rerum  commune  sepulchrum." 
We  would  ask,  did  Shakspere  and  Milton  go  to  the 
same  common  source  ?     Farmer  has  not  solved  this 
question  in  his  "  Essay  on  the   Learning  of  Shak- 
spere." 


«  Scene  III.—" 


•  Both  our  remedies 


Within  thy  help  and  holy  physic  lies." 

"  This,"  says  Monck  Mason,  "  is  one  of  the  pas- 
sages in  which  the  author  has  sacrificed  grammar  to 
rhyme."  Mr.  Monck  Mason's  observation  is  made 
in  the  same  spirit  in  which  he  calls  Romeo's  impas- 
sioned language,  "quaint  jargon."  Before  Shakspere 
was  accused  of  sacrificing  grammar,  it  ought  to  have 
been  shewn  that  his  idiom  was  essentially  different 
from  that  of  his  predecessors  and  his  contemporaries. 
Dr.  Percy,  who  brought  to  the  elucidation  of  our  old 


42 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


authors  the  knowledge  of  an  antiquary  and  the  feeling 
of  a  poet,  has  observed,  that  ''in  very  old  English  the 
third  person  plural  of  the  present  tense  endeth  in  cth 
as  well  as  the  singular,  and  often  familiarly  in  es ;' 
and  it  has  been  further  explained  by  Mr.  Toilet,  that 
"  the  third  person  plural  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  present 
tense  endeth  in  eth,  and  of  the  Dano- Saxon  in  es." 
Malone,  we  think,  has  rightly  stated  the  principle 
upon  which  such  idioms,  which  appear  false  concords 
to  us,  should  be  corrected,— that  is,  "  to  substitute 
the  modern  idiom  in  all  places  except  where  either 
the  metre  or  rhyme  renders  it  impossible."  But  to 
those  who  can  feel  the  value  of  a  slight  sprinkling  of 
our  antique  phraseology,  it  is  pleasant  to  drop  upon 
the  instances  in  which  correction  is  impossible.  We 
would  not  part  with  the  exquisite  bit  of  false  con- 
cord, as  we  must  now  term  it,  in  the  last  word  of  the 
four  following  lines,  for  all  that  Shakspere's  grammar- 
correctors  have  ever  written  : — 

"  Hark !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings. 
And  Phoebus  'sins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies." 

'  Scene  IV. — "^  duellist,  a  duellist." 
George  Wither,  in  his  obsequies  upon  the  death  of 
Prince  Henry,  thus  introduces  Britannia  lamenting ; 

"  Alas!  who  now  shall  grace  tny  tournaments. 
Or  honour  me  with  deeds  of  chivalrie  ?" 

The  tournaments  and  the  chivalrie  were  then,  how- 
ever, but  "  an  insubstantial  pageant  faded."  Men 
had  learnt  to  revenge  their  private  wrongs,  without 
the  paraphernalia  of  heralds  and  warders.  In  the  old 
chivalrous  times,  they  might  suppress  any  outbreak 
of  hatred  or  passion,  and  cherish  their  malice  against 
each  other  until  it  could  be  legally  gratified  ;  so  that, 
according  to  the  phrase  of  Richard  Cceur-de-Lion  in 
his  ordinance  for  permitting  tournaments,  "  the  peace 
of  our  land  be  not  broken,  nor  justice  hindered,  nor 
damage  done  to  our  forests."  The  private  contests  of 
two  knights  was  a  violation  of  the  laws  of  chivalry. 
Chaucer  has  a  remarkable  exemplification  of  this  in  his 
"  Knight's  Tale,"  w  here  the  duke,  coming  to  the  plain, 
saw  Arcite  and  Palamon  fighting  like  two  bulls : — 

"  This  duke  his  courser  with  his  spurres  smote. 
And  al  a  start  he  was  betwixt  them  two, 
And  pulled  out  a  sword  and  cried, — '  Ho! 
No  more,  up  pain  of  losing  of  your  head  j 
By  mighty  Mars,  he  shall  anon  be  dead 
That  smiteth  any  stroke  that  I  may  seen! 
But  telleth  me  what  mistere  men  ye  been. 
That  be  so  hardy  for  to  fighten  here 
Withouten  any  judge  or  other  officer. 
As  though  it  were  in  listes  really' "  (royally). 

That  duels  were  frequent  in  England  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  we  might  collect,  if  there  were  no  other 
evidence,  from  Shakspere  alone.  The  matter  had 
been  reduced  to  a  science.  Tybalt  is  the  "  coura- 
geous captain  of  compliments," — a  perfect  master  of 
punctilio,  one  who  kills  his  adversary  by  rule — "  one, 
two,  and  the  third  in  your  bosom."  The  gentleman 
of  the  "first  and  second  cause,"  is  a  gentleman  who 
will   quarrel  upon   the  very  slightest  offences.     The 


degrees  in  quarrelling  were  called  the  causes  ;  and 
these  have  been  most  happily  ridiculed  by  Shakspere 
in  As  You  Like  It : — 

"Jar/ucs.  But  for  the  seventh  cause  ;  how  did  you  find  the 
quarrel  on  the  seventh  cause  ? 

Touchstone.  Upon  a  lie  seven  times  removed;  as  thus,  sir. 
I  did  dislike  the  cut  of  a  certain  courtier's  beard ;  he  sent 
me  word,  if  I  said  his  beard  was  not  cut  well,  he  was  in  the 
mind  it  was  :  this  is  called  the  Retort  courteous.  If  I  sent 
him  word  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  v\ould  send  me  word 
he  cut  it  to  please  himself:  this  is  called  the  duip  modest. 
If,  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  disabled  my  judgment :  this 
is  called  the  He/jly  churlish.  If,  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he 
would  answer,  I  spake  not  true :  this  is  called  the  Reproof 
vuliant.  If,  again,  it  was  not  well  cut,  he  would  say,  I  lie : 
this  is  called  the  Countercheck  quarrelsome  :  and  so  to  the 
Lie  circumstantial  and  the  Lie  direct." 

When  Touchstone  adds,  "  O  sir !  we  quarrel  in  print 
by  the  book,"  he  alludes  to  the  works  of  Saviolo  and 
Caranza,  who  laid  down  laws  for  the  duello.  The  wit 
of  Shakspere  is  the  best  commentary  upon  the  phi- 
losophy of  Montaigne :  "  Inquire  why  that  man 
hazards  his  life  and  honour  upon  the  fortune  of  his 
rapier  and  dagger;  let  him  acquaint  you  with  the 
occasion  of  the  quarrel,  he  cannot  do  it  without  blush- 
ing, 'tis  so  idle  and  frivolous." — (Essays,  book  iii. 
ch.  10.)  But  philosophy  and  wit  were  equally  una- 
vailing to  put  down  the  quarrelsome  spirit  of  the  times  : 
Henry  IV.  of  France  in  vain  declared  all  duellists 
guilty  of  lese-majeste,  and  punishable  with  death  ; 
and  James  I.  of  England  as  vainly  denounced  them 
in  the  Star-Chamber. 

The  practice  of  duelling  went  on  with  us  till  the 
civil  wars  came  to  merge  private  quarrels  in  public 
ones.  Burton,  in  his  "  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,"  has 
a  bitter  satire  against  the  nobility,  when  he  says,  they 
are  "  like  our  modern  Frenchmen,  that  had  rather 
lose  a  pound  of  blood  in  a  single  combat,  than  a  drop 
of  sweat  in  any  honest  labour." 

8  Scene  IV. — "  What  counterfeit  did  I  give  you? 
The  slip,  sir,  the  slip." 
A  counterfeit  piece  of  money  and  a  slip  were 
synonymous  ;  and  in  many  old  dramas  we  have  the 
same  play  upon  words  as  here.  In  Robert  Greene's 
"  Thieves  falling  out,"  the  word  slip  is  defined  as  in 
a  dictionary  :  "  and  therefore  he  went  and  got  him 
certain  slips,  which  are  counterfeit  pieces  of  money, 
being  brass,  and  covered  over  with  silver,  which  the 
common  people  call  slips." 

'  Scene  IV. — "  The  wild-goose  chase." 
Horse-racing,  and  the  wild-goose  chase,  were 
amongst  the  "  disports  of  great  men"  in  the  time  of 
Elizabeth.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  describe  a 
sport,  if  sport  it  can  be  called,  which  is  still  used 
amongst  us.  When  the  "  wits  run  the  wild-goose 
chase,"  we  have  a  type  of  its  folly  ;  as  the  "  switch 
and  spurs,  switch  and  spurs,"  is  descriptive  of  its 
brutality. 

'"  Scene  IV. — "Why,  is  not  this  better  7iow  than 

groaning  for  love?" 
Coleridge  invites  us  to  compare,  in  this  scene,  "  Ro- 
meo's half-excited  and  half-real  ease  of  mind,  with  his 

43 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


first  manner  when  in  love  with  Rosaline  !  His  will 
had  come  to  the  clenching  point."  Romeo  had  not 
only  recovered  the  natural  tone  of  his  mind,  but  he 
had  come  back  to  the  conventional  gaiety — the  fives- 
play  of  witty  words — which  was  the  tone  of  the  best 
society  in  Shakspere's  time.  "  Now  art  thou  what 
thou  art,"  says  Mercutio,  "by  art  as  well  as  by 
nature." 

"  Scene  IV. — "  My  fan,  Peter." 

The  fan  which  Peter  had  to  bear  is  exhibited  in 
the  wood-cut  at  the  end  of  this  Act.  It  does  not  ap- 
pear quite  so  ridiculous,  therefore,  when  we  look  at 
the  size  of  the  machine,  to  believe  the  Nurse  should 
have  a  servant  to  bear  it.  Shakspere  has  given  the 
same  office  to  Armado  in  Love's  Labour 's  Lost : — 
"  Oh !  a  most  dainty  man, 
To  see  him  walk  before  a  lady,  and  to  bear  her  fan." 

12  Scene  IV. — "  7s  it  good  den  1" 

According  to  Mercutio's  answer,  the  time  was 
noon  when  the  evening  salutation  "  good  den"  began. 
But  Shakspere  had  here  English  manners  in  his  eye. 
The  Italian  custom  of  commencing  the  day  half  an 
hour  after  sunset,  and  reckoning  through  the  twenty- 
four  hours,  is  inconsistent  with  such  a  division  of 
time  as  this. 

"  Scene  IV. — "  Saucy  merchant." 

Steevens  pointed  out  that  the  term  merchant  was 
anciently  used  in  contradistinction  to  gentleman ;  as 
we  still  use  the  word  chap  as  an  abbreviation  of  chap- 
man. Douce  has  quoted  a  passage  from  Whetstone's 
"  Mirour  for  Magestrates  of  Cyties"  (1584),  in  which 
he  speaks  of  the  usurious  practices  of  the  citizens  of 


London,  which  is  conclusive  upon  this  point : — "  The 
extremity  of  these  men's  dealings  hath  been  and  is  so 
cruell  as  there  is  a  natural  malice  generally  impressed 
in  the  hearts  of  the  gentlemen  of  England  towards 
the  citizens  of  London,  insomuch  as  if  they  odiously 
name  a  man,  they  forthwith  called  him  a  trimme 
jnerchaunt.  In  like  despight  the  citizen  calleth 
every  rascal  Bijoly  gentleman." 

**  Scene  IV. — "  R  is  for  the  dog." 
R  was  called  the  dog's  letter.  In  his  English 
Grammar,  Ben  Jonson  says,  "  R  is  the  dog's  letter 
and  hirreth  in  the  sound."  In  our  old  writers  we 
have  a  verb  formed  from  the  noise  of  a  dog.  Thus, 
in  Nashe  (1600), 

"  They  arre  and  bark  at  night  against  the  moon  ;" 
and  in  Holland's  translation  of  Plutarch's  Morals, 
"  a  dog  is,  by  nature,  fell  and  quarrelsome,  given  to 
arre  and  war  upon  a  very  small  occasion."  Erasmus 
has  a  meaning  for  R  being  the  dog's  letter,  which 
is  not  derived  from  the  sound :  "  R,  litera  quse  in 
iJixando,  prima  est,  canina  vocatur." 

-"  Therefore  do  nimble-pinion' d  doves 
draw  love." 

The  "  love"  thus  drawn  was  the  queen  of  love  ; 
for  "  the  wind-swift  Cupid"  had  "wings."  Shakspere 
had  here  the  same  idea  which  suggested  his  own 
beautiful  description  at  the  close  of  the  Venus  and 
Adonis : — 

"  Thus  weary  of  the  world,  away  she  hies. 
And  yokes  her  silver  doves;  by  whose  swift  aid. 
Their  mistress  mounted,  through  the  empty  skies 
In  her  light  chariot  quickly  is  convey'd. 

Holding  their  course  to  Paphos,  where  their  queen 
Means  to  immure  herself,  and  not  be  seen." 


'5  Scene  V.- 


44 


^^ 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  L— A  public  Place. 

jEn^^rMERCUTiOjBENVOLiOjPage,  and  Servants. 

Ben.  I  pray  thee,  good  Mercutio,  let's  retire ; 
The  day  is  hot,  the  Capulets  abroad, 
And,  if  we  meet,  we  shall  not  'scape  a  brawl ; 
For  now,  these  hot  days,  is  the  mad  blood  stir- 
ring. 

Mer.  Thou  art  like  one  of  those  fellows,  that, 
when  he  enters  the  confines  of  a  tavern,  claps 
me  his  sword  upon  the  table,  and  says,  Godsend 
me  no  need  of  thee !  and,  by  the  operation  of 
the  second  cup,  draws  it  on  the  drawer,  when, 
indeed,  there  is  no  need. 

Ben.  Am  I  like  such  a  fellow  ? 

Mer.  Come,  come,  thou  art  as  hot  a  Jack  in 
thy  mood  as  any  in  Italy ;  and  as  soon  moved 
to  be  moody,  and  as  soon  moody  to  be  moved. 

Ben.  And  what  to  ? 

Mer.  Nay,  an  there  were  two  such,  we 
should  have  none  shortly,  for  one  would  kill 
the  other.  Thou !  why  thou  wilt  quarrel  with  a 
man  that  hath  a  hair  more,  or  a  hair  less,  in 
his  beard,  than  thou  hast.  Thou  wilt  quarrel 
with  a  man  for  cracking  nuts,  having  no  other 
reason  than  because  thou  hast  hazel  eyes.  What 
eye,  but  such  an  eye,  would  spy  out  such  a 
quarrel  ?  Thy  head  is  as  full  of  quarrels,  as  an 
egg  is  full  of  meat ;  and  yet  thy  head  hath  been 


beaten  as  addle  as  an  egg,  for  quarrelling.  Thou 
hast  quarrelled  with  a  man  for  coughing  in  the 
street,  because  he  hath  wakened  thy  dog  that 
hath  lain  asleep  in  the  sun.  Didst  thou  not 
fall  out  with  a  tailor  for  wearing  his  ne^v  doublet 
before  Easter?  with  another,  for  tying  his  new 
shoes  with  old  riband?  and  yet  thou  wilt  tutor 
me  from  quarrelling ! 

Ben.  An  I  were  so  apt  to  quarrel  as  thou  art, 
any  man  should  buy  the  fee-simple  of  my  life 
for  an  hour  and  a  quarter. 

Mer.  The  fee-simple  ?  O  simple ! 

Enter  Tybalt  and  others. 
Ben.  By  my  head,  here  come  the  Capulets. 
Mer.  By  my  heel,  I  care  not. 
Tyb.  FoUow  me  close,  for  I  will  speak  to 
them. 
Gentlemen,  good  den :  a  word  with  one  of  you. 
Mer.  And  but  one  word  with  one  of  us  ? 
Couple  it  with  something;  make  it  a  word  and 
a  blow. 

Tyb.  You  shall  find  me  apt  enough  to  that, 
sir,  an  you  will  give  me  occasion. 

Mer.  Could  you  not  take  some  occasion 
without  giving  ? 

Tyb.  Mercutio,   thou  consortest  with  Ro- 
meo,— 
Mer.  Consort!  what,  dost  thou  make  us  min- 

45 


Act    III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  I. 


strels !  an  thou  make  minstrels  of  us,  look  to 
hear  nothing  but  discords:  here's  my  fiddle- 
stick ;  here  's  that  shall  make  you  dance. 
'Zounds,  consort! 

Ben.  We  talk  here  in  the  public  haunt  of  men  : 
Either  withdraw  unto  some  private  place, 
Or  reason  coldly  of  your  grievances, 
Or  else  depart ;  here  all  eyes  gaze  on  us. 

Mer.  Men's  eyes  were  made  to  look,  and  let 
them  gaze ; 
I  will  not  budge  for  no  man's  pleasure,  I. 

Enter  Romeo. 

Tyb.  Well,   peace  be   with   you,  sir!  here 
comes  my  man. 

Mer.  But  I  '11  be  hang'd,  sir,  if  he  wear  your 
livery  ; 
Marry,  go  before  to  field,  he  '11  be  your  follower  ; 
Your  worship  in  that  sense,  may  call  him — 
man. 

Tyb.  Romeo,  the  love  *  I  bear  thee  can  afford 
No  better  term  than  this — Thou  art  a  villain. 

Rom.  Tybalt,  the  reason  that  I  have  to  love 
thee 
Doth  much  excuse  the  appertaining  rage 
To  such  a  greeting: — Villain  am  I  none; 
Therefore,  farewell ;  I  see  thou  know'st  me  not. 

Tyb.  Boy,  this  shall  not  excuse  the  injuries 
That  thou  hast  done  me ;  therefore  turn,  and 
draw. 

Rom.  I  do  protest,  I  never  injur'd  thee  ; 
But  love**  thee  better  than  thou  canst  devise. 
Till  thou  shalt  know  the  reason  of  my  love : 
And  so,  good  Oapulet, — which  name  I  tender 
As  dearly  as  mine  own, — be  satisfied. 

Mer.  O  calm,  dishonourable,  vile  submission ! 
Alia  stoccata  '^  carries  it  away.  \^Draws. 

Tybalt,  you  rat-catcher,  will  you  walk? 

Tyb.  What  would'st  thou  have  with  me  ? 

Mer.  Good  king  of  cats,  nothing,  but  one  of 
your  nine  lives ;  that  I  mean  to  make  bold 
withal,  and,  as  you  shall  use  me  hereafter,  dry- 
beat  the  rest  of  the  eight.  Will  you  pluck  your 
sword  out  of  his  pilcher'^  by  the  ears?  make 
haste,  lest  mine  be  about  your  ears  ere  it  be  out. 

Tyb.  I  am  for  you.  [^Drawing. 

Rom.  Gentle  Mercutio,  put  thy  rapier  up. 

Mer.  Come,  sir,  your  passado.  \T hey  fight. 

Rom.  Draw,  Benvolio.     Beat  down  their 
weapons. 
Gentlemen,  for  shame,  forbear  this  outrage ; 
Tybalt,  Mercutio,  the  prince  expressly  hath 

^  C^),  hate.  ■>  Love.  So  (C) ;  the  folio,  l(rv'd. 

"  Alia  stoccata — the    Italian   term  of  art  for  the  thrust 
with  a  rapier. 
*  Scabbard. 

46 


Forbidden  bandying  in  Verona  streets. 
Hold  Tybalt— good  Mercutio » — 

\^Exeunt  Tybalt  and  his  Partisans. 

Mer.  I  am  hurt. — 
A  plague  o'  both  the  houses! — I  am  sped : 
Is  he  gone,  and  hath  nothing  ? 

Ben.  What,  art  thou  hurt  ? 

Mer.  Ay,  ay,  a  scratch,  a  scratch ;  marry, 
'tis  enough. — 
Where  is  my  page  ? — go,  villain,  fetch  a  sur- 
geon. \^Exit  Page. 

Rom.  Courage,   man;   the  hurt  cannot  be 
much. 

Mer.  No,  't  is  not  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so 
wide  as  a  church  door ;  but 't  is  enough,  't  will 
serve :  ask  for  me  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  find 
me  a  grave  man.  I  am  peppered,  I  warrant,  for 
this  world. — A  plague  o'  both  your  houses  ! — 
What,  a  dog,  a  rat,  a  mouse,  a  cat,  to  scratch 
a  man  to  death  !  a  braggart,  a  rogue,  a  villain, 
that  fights  by  the  book  of  arithmetic ! — Why 
the  devil  came  you  between  us?  I  was  hurt 
under  your  arm. 

Rom.  I  thought  all  for  the  best. 

Mer.  Help  me  into  some  house,  Benvolio, 
Or  I  shall  faint. — A  plague  o'  both  your  houses. 
They  have  made  worm's  meat  of  me : 
I  have  it,  and  soundly  too: — Your  houses. 

[^Exeunt  Mercutio  and  Benvolio. 

Rom.  This  gentleman,  the  prince's  near  ally, 
My  very  friend,  hath  got  his  mortal  hurt 
In  my  behalf ;  my  reputation  stain'd 
With  Tybalt's  slander,  Tybalt,  that  an  hour 
Hath  been  my  cousin.'' — O  sweet  Juliet, 
Thy  beauty  hath  made  me  efieminate. 
And  in  my  temper  soften'd  valour's  steel. 

Re-enter  Benvolio. 

Ben.  O  Romeo,  Romeo,  brave  Mercutio  's 
dead; 
That  gallant  spirit  hath  aspir'd  the  clouds. 
Which  too  untimely  here  did  scorn  the  earth. 
Rum.  This  day's  black  fate  on  more  days 
doth  depend ; 
Tliis  but  begins  the  woe,  others  must  end. 

Re-enter  Tybalt. 

Ben.  Here  comes  the  furious  Tybalt  back 

again. 
Rom.  Alive !  "^   in  triumph !    and   Mercutio 

slain ! 
Away  to  heaven,  respective  lenity, 

"  We  have  restored  the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  pre- 
ceding five  lines,  from  (C)  and  the  folio. 
i>  {A),  kinsman.  '  So  {A).  (C)  and  folio,  he  gone. 


Act  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  U- 


And  fire-eyed*  fury  be  my  conduct  now! — 
Now,  Tybalt,  take  the  lillain  back  again, 
That  late  thou  gav'st  me  ;  for  Mercutio's  soul 
Is  but  a  little  way  above  our  heads. 
Staying  for  thine  to  keep  him  company; 
Either  thou,  or  I,  or  both,  must  go  with  him. 
Ti/b.  Thou  wretched  boy,  that  didst  consort 
him  here, 
Shalt  with  him  hence. 

Rom.  This  shall  determine  that, 

{^They  fight ;  Tyb ALT /aZ/s. 
Ben.  Romeo,  away,  be  gone  ! 
The  citizens  are  up,  and  Tybalt  slain : — 
Stand  not  amaz'd : — the  prince  will  doom  thee 

death. 
If  thou  art  taken : — hence ! — be  gone ! — away ! 
Rom.  Oh!  I  am  fortune's  fool! 
Ben.  Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

\_Exit  Romeo. 
Enter  Citizens,  ^c. 
1  Cit.  Which  way  ran  he,  that  kill' dMercutio? 
Tybalt,  that  murtherer,  which  way  ran  he  ? 
Ben.  There  lies  that  Tybalt. 
1  Cit.  Up,  sir,  go  with  me ; 

I  charge  thee  in  the  prince's  name,  obey. 
Enter  Prince,  attended;  Montague,  Capu- 
LET,  their  Wives,  and  others. 
Prin.  Where  are  the  vile  beginners  of  this 

fray? 
Ben.  O  noble  prince,  I  can  discover  all 
The  unlucky  manage  of  this  fatal  brawl : 
There  lies  tlie  man,  slain  by  young  Romeo, 
That  slew  thy  kinsman,  brave  Mercutio. 
La.  Cap.  Tybalt,  my  cousin! — O  my  bro- 
ther's child! 
O  prince, — O  cousin, — husband, '' — the  blood  is 

spill'd 
Of  my  dear  kinsman ! — Prince,  as  thou  art  true. 
For  blood  of  ours,  shed  blood  of  Montague. — 
O  cousin,  cousin ! 

Prin.  Benvolio,  who  began  this  fray? 
Ben.  Tybalt,  here  slain,  whom  Romeo's  hand 
did  slay ; 
Romeo  that  spoke  him  fair,  bade  him  bethink 
How  nice"^  the  quarrel  was,  and  urg'd  withal 
Your  high  displeasure: — All  this — uttered 
With  gentle  breath,  calm  look,  knees  humbly 
bow'd, — 

»  Fire-eyed,     So  [A) ;  the  folio  and  fC)  h&vejire  and  fury. 

>>  So  (C)  and  folio.  [D)  "  unhappy  sight,  ah  me"  and  in  that 
copy,  "O  cousin,  cousin  !"  in  the  third  line  beyond,  is  omit- 
ted. All  the  modem  editors,  in  this  and  in  other  passages, 
hare  adopted  the  arliitrary  course  of  making  up  a  text  out  of 
the  first  quarto,  and  the  quarto  of  l.i99,  without  regard  to  the 
important  circumstance  that  this  later  edition  was  "  newly 
corrected,  augmented,  and  amended,"— and  that  the  folio,  in 
nearly  every  essential  particular,  follows  it. 

'  Slight. 


Could  not  take  truce  with  the  unruly  spleen 
Of  Tybalt,  deaf  to  peace,  but  that  he  tilts 
With  piercing  steel  at  bold  Mercutio's  breast ; 
Who,  all  as  hot,  turns  deadly  point  to  point, 
And,  with  a  martial  scorn,  with  one  hand  beats 
Cold  death  aside,  and  with  the  other  sends 
It  back  to  Tybalt,  whose  dexterity 
Retorts  it :  Romeo  he  cries  aloud, 
Hold,  friends  !  friends,  part !  and  swifter  than 

his  tongue. 
His  agile  arm  beats  down  their  fatal  points, 
And  'twixt  them  rushes;  underneath  whose  arm 
An  envious  thrust  from  Tybalt  hit  the  life 
Of  stout  Mercutio,  and  then  Tybalt  fled : 
But  by  and  by  comes  back  to  Romeo, 
Who  had  but  newly  entertain'd  revenge, 
And  to  't  they  go  like  lightning  ;  for,  ere  I 
Could  drawto  part  them, was  stout  Tybalt  slain ; 
And,  as  he  fell,  did  Romeo  turn  and  fly ; 
This  is  the  truth,  or  let  Benvolio  die. 

La.  Cap.  He  is  a  kinsman  to  the  Montague, 
Affection  makes  him  false, '  he  speaks  not  true  : 
Some  twenty  of  them  fought  in  this  black  strife. 
And  all  those  twenty  could  but  kill  one  life : 
I  beg  for  justice,  which  thou,  prince,  must  give  ; 
Romeo  slew  Tybalt,  Romeo  must  not  live. 

Prin.  Romeo  slew  him,  he  slew  Mercutio  ; 
Who  now  the  price  of  his  dear  blood  doth  owe  ? 
Mon.  Not  Romeo,  prince,  he  was  Mercutio's 
friend  ; 
His  fault  concludes  but  what  the  law  should 

end. 
The  life  of  Tybalt. 

Prin.  And  for  that  offence. 

Immediately  we  do  exile  him  hence : 
I  have  an  interest  in  j^our  hate's  *  proceeding, 
My  blood  for  your  rude  brawls  doth  lie  a  bleed- 
ing ; 
But  I  '11  amerce  you  with  so  strong  a  fine, 
That  you  shall  all  repent  the  loss  of  mine : 
I  will  be  deaf  to  pleading  and  excuses ; 
Nor  tears,  nor  prayers,  shall  purchase  out  abuses, 
Therefore  use  none :  let  Romeo  hence  in  haste. 
Else,  when  he  's  found,  that  hour  is  his  last. 
Bear  hence  this  body,  and  attend  our  will : 
Mercy  but  murthers,  pardoning  those  that  kill. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.—^  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 

Enter  Juliet. 
Jul.  Gallop  apace,  you  fiery-footed  steeds. 
Towards  PhcEbus'  lodging;''  such  a  waggoner 
As  Phaeton  would  whip  you  to  the  west, 
And  bring  in  cloudy  night  immediately.'' — 

*  {A),  hates.     [C],  heart's.  ^  (A),  7nansion. 

'  Juliet's  soliloquy  ends  here  in  the  first  quarto. 

47 


Act  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  TI. 


Spread    thy    close    curtain,    love-performing 

night ! 
That,  unawares,"  eyes  may  wink  ;  and  Romeo 
Leap  to  these  arras,  untalk'd  of,  and  unseen  ! — 
Lovers  can  see  to  do  their  amorous  rites 
By  their  own  beauties:  or,  if  love  be  blind, 
It  best  agi-ees  Avith  night. — Come,  civil  night. 
Thou  sober-suited  matron,  all  in  black, 
And  learn  me  how  to  lose  a  winning  match, 
Play'd  for  a  pair  of  stainless  maidenhoods : 
Hood  my  unmann'd  •*  blood  bating  in  my  cheeks, 
AVith  thy  black  mantle ;  till  strange  love,  grown 

bold, 
Think  true  love  acted,  simple  modesty. 
Come,  night! — Come,  Romeo!  come,  thou  day 

in  night ! 
For  thou  wilt  lie  upon  the  wings  of  night 
Whiter  than  new  snow  upon  a  raven's  back. — 
Come,  gentle  night ;  come,  loving,  black-brow'd 

night, 
Give  me  my  Romeo:  and,  when  he  shall  die. 
Take  him  and  cut  him  out  in  little  stars. 
And  he  will  make  the  face  of  heaven  so  fine, 
That  all  the  world  will  be  in  love  with  night. 
And  pay  no  worship  to  the  garish  sun. 
O,  I  have  bought  the  mansion  of  a  love, 
But  not  possess'd  it ;  and,  though  I  am  sold, 
Not  yet  enjoy'd :  So  tedious  is  this  day, 
As  is  the  night  before  some  festival 
To  an  impatient  child,  that  hath  new  robes 
And  may  not  wear  them.     O,  here  comes  my 

nurse, 

Enter  Nurse  with  cords. 
And  she  brings  news :  and  every  tongue,  that 

speaks 
But  Romeo's  name,  speaks  heavenly  eloquence.— 
Now,  nurse,  what  news?  What  hast  thou  there? 

the  cords, 

»  The  common  reading,  which  is  that  of  all  the  old  copies,  is 
"  That  runaways'  eyes  may  weep." 
This  passage  has  been  a  perpetual  source  of  contention  to  the 
commentators.  Their  difficulties  are  well  represented  by 
Warburton's  question — "  What  runaways  are  these,  whose 
eyes  Juliet  is  wishing  to  have  stopped  ?"  Warburton  says, 
Phoebus  is  the  runaway.  Steevens  proves  that  Night  is  the 
runaway.  Douce  thinks  that  Juliet  is  the  runaway.  Monck 
Mason  is  confident  that  the  passage  ought  to  be,  "that 
Renomifs  eyes  may  wink,"  Renomy  being  a  new  personage, 
created  out  of  the  French  Renoraraee,  and  answering,  we 
suppose,  to  the  "  Rumour"  of  Spenser.  After  all  this  learn, 
ing,  there  comes  an  unlearned  compositor,  Zachary  Jackson, 
and  sets  the  matter  straight.  Runaways  is  a  misprint 
for  unawares.  The  word  unawares,  in  the  old  orthography, 
is  unawayrcs.  (it  is  so  spelt  in  The  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI.) 
and  the  r  having  been  misplaced,  produced  this  word  of 
puzzle,  runawayes.  We  have  not  the  least  hesitation  in 
adopting  Jackson's  reading ;  and  we  have  the  authority  of  a 
very  clever  article  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  (July  1819),  for 
a  general  testimony  to  the  value  of  Jackson's  book  ;  and  the 
equally  valuable  authority  of  a  most  accomplished  friend, 
who  called  our  attention  to  this  particular  reading,  as  settled 
by  the  common  sense  of  the  printer. 

i>  Unmann'd.     A  term  of  falconry.     To  man  a  hawk  is  to 
accustom  her  to  the  falconer  who  trains  her. 

48 


That  Romeo  bade  thee  fetch  ? 

Nurse.  Ay,  ay,  the  cords. 

[Throws  them  down. 

Jul.  Ah   me !  what  news  I  why  dost  thou 
wring  thy  hands  ? 

Nurse.  Ah  well-a-day !  he's  dead,  he's  dead, 
he's  dead! 
We  are  undone,  lady,  we  are  undone  ! — 
Alack  the  day! — he's  gone,  he's  kill'd,  he's 
dead ! 

Jul.  Can  Heaven  be  so  envious  ? 

Nurse.  Romeo  can, 

Though  Heaven  cannot: — O  Romeo,  Romeo  I — 
AVhoever  Avould  have  thought  it  ? — Romeo ! 

Jul.  What  devil  art  thou,  that  dost  torment 
me  thus  ? 
This  torture  should  be  roar'd  in  dismal  hell. 
Hath  Romeo  slain  himself?  say  thou  but  J," 
And  that  bare  vowel  /  shall  poison  more 
Than  the  death-darting  eye  of  cockatrice : 
I  am  not  I,  if  there  be  such  an  I; 
Or  those  eyes  shut,  that  make  thee  answer,  J, 
If  he  be  slain,  say — I ;  or  if  not,  no  : 
Brief  sounds  determine  of  my  weal,  or  woe. 

Nurse.  I  saw  the  wound,  I  saw  it  with  mine 
eyes,— 
God  save  the  mark !  ^ — here  on  his  manly  breast : 
A  piteous  corse,  a  blood j^  piteous  corse  ; 
Pale,  pale  as  ashes,  all  bedaub'd  in  blood, 
All  in  gore  blood  ; — I  swoonded  at  the  sight. 

Jul.  O  break,  my  heart ! — poor  banki'out,** 
break  at  once ! 
To  prison,  eyes!  ne'er  look  on  liberty! 
Vile  earth,  to  earth  resign  ;  end  motion  here  ; 
And  thou,  and  Romeo,  press  one  heavy  bier! 

Nurse.  O  Tybalt,  Tybalt,  the  best  friend  I 
had! 
O  courteous  Tj^balt !  honest  gentleman ! 
That  ever  I  should  live  to  see  thee  dead ! 

Jul.  Whatstorm  isthis,thatblowssocontrary? 
Is  Romeo  slaughter'd ;  and  is  Tybalt  dead  ? 
My  dearest*^  cousin,  and  my  dearer  lord? — 
Then,  dreadful  trumpet,  sound  the  general  doom  t 
For  who  is  living,  if  those  two  are  gone  ? 

Nurse.  Tybalt  is  gone,  and  Romeo  banished  ; 
Romeo,  that  kill'd  him,  he  is  banished. 

Jul.  O  God  ! — did  Romeo's  hand  shed  Ty- 
balt's blood  ? 

Nurse.  It  did,  it  did  ;  alas  the  day !  it  did. 

Jul.  O  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flow 'ring  face  ! 
Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fair  a  cave? 


a  It  is  here  necessary  to  retain  the  old  spelling  of  the  affir- 
mative particle  /(ay). 

•>  Bankrouf.  We  restore  the  old  poetical  bankrout,  in 
preference  to  the  modem  bankrupt. 

■^  {A),  dear-lov'd. 


ACT  nio 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III. 


Beautiful  tyrant !  fiend  angelical ! 
Dove-feather'd  raven !  wolvish-ravening  lamb ! 
Despised  substance  of  divinest  show ! 
Just  opposite  to  -what  thou  justly  seem'st, 
A  damned  a  saint,  an  honourable  villain! — 
O,  nature !  what  hadst  thou  to  do  in  hell, 
When  thou  didst  bower  the  spirit  of  a  fiend 
In  mortal  paradise  of  such  sweet  flesh? — 
Was  ever  book  containing  such  vile  matter 
So  fairly  bound  ?     O,  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  such  a  gorgeous  palace ! 

Nurse.  There 's  no  trust, 

No  faith,  no  honesty  in  men;  all  perjur'd, 
All  forsworn,  all  nought,  all  dissemblers. — 
Ah,  where 's mj'  man  ?  give  me s,omeaqua  vita; : — 
These  griefs,  these  woes,  these  sorrows  make 

me  old. 
Shame  come  to  Romeo ! 

Jul.  Blister'd  be  thy  tongue, 

For  such  a  wish !  he  was  not  born  to  shame : 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  asham'd  to  sit ; 
For 't  is  a  throne  where  honour  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth. 
O,  what  a  beast  was  I  to  chide  at  him  ! 
Nurse.  Will  you  speak  well  of  him  that 

kill'd  your  cousin  ? 
Jul.  Shall  I  speak  ill  of  him  that  is  my 
husband  ? 
Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth 

thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three-hours'  wife,  have  mangled 

it?— 
But,  wherefore,  villain,  didst  thou  kill  my  cousin  ? 
That  villain  cousin  would  have  kill'd  my  hus- 
band: 
Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring ; 
Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  woe, 
Which  you,  mistaking,  offer  up  to  joy. 
My  husband  lives,  that  Tybalt  would  have  slain ; 
And  Tybalt  dead,  that  would  have  slain  my 

husband : 
All  this  is  comfort :  Wherefore  weep  I  then  ? 
Some  word  there  was,  worser  than  Tybalt's 

death. 
That  murther'd  me :  I  would  forget  it  fain ; 
But,  O  !  it  presses  to  my  memory. 
Like  damned  guilty  deeds  to  sinners'  minds. 
Tybalt  is  dead,  and  Romeo — banished ; 
That — banished,  that  one  word — banished. 
Hath  slain  ten  thousand  Tybalts.  Tybalt's  death 
Was  woe  enough,  if  it  had  ended  there : 
Or, — if  sour  woe  delights  in  fellowship. 
And  needly  will  be  rank'd  with  other  griefs, — 
Why  foUow'd  not,  when  shesaid — Tybalt's  dead, 

>  Thus  (D).     (g,  dimine. 
Traobdies. — Vol,.  I.  H 


Thy  father,  or  thy  mother,  nay,  or  both, 
Which  modern  lamentation  might  have  mov'd  ? 
But  with  a  rear-ward  following  Tybalt's  death, 
Romeo  is  banished, — to  speak  that  word. 
Is  father,  mother,  Tybalt,  Romeo,  Juliet, 
All  slain,  all  dead  -.—Romeo  is  banished, — 
There  is  no  end,  no  limit,  measure,  bound, 
In  that  word's  death  ;  no  words  can  that  woe 

sound. — 
Where  is  my  father,  and  my  mother,  nurse  ? 
Nurse.  Weeping  and  wailing  over  Tybalt's 

corse : 
Will  you  go  to  them  ?    I  will  bring  you  thither. 
Jul.  Wash  they  his  wounds  with  tears?  mine 

shall  be  spent, 
When  theirs  are  dry,  for  Romeo's  banishment. 
Take  up  those  cords: — Poor  ropes,  you  are^ -^j 

beguil'd. 
Both  you  and  I ;  for  Romeo  is  exil'd : 
He  made  you  for  a  highway  to  my  bed ; 
But  I,  a  maid,  die  maiden-widowed. 
Come,  cord ;  come,  nurse ;  I  '11  to  my  wedding 

bed ; 
And  death,  not  Romeo,  take  my  maidenhead!   jj 
Nurse.  Hie  to  your  chamber :  I  '11  find  Romeo  ^  ^, 
To  comfort  you : — I  wot  well  where  he  is.  ,- , 

Hark  ye,  your  Romeo  will  be  here  at  night ; 
I  '11  to  him ;  he  is  hid  at  Laurence'  cell. 

Jul.  0  find  him !  give  this  ring  to  my  true 

knight,  J 

And  bid  liim  come  to  take  his  last  farewell. 

[^Ezeu7it. 

SCENE  III.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell. 

Enter  Friar  Laurence  and  Romeo."*^*  ^'" 

Fri.  Romeo,  come  forth ;  come  forth,  thou 
fearful  man  ; 
Affliction  is  enamour' d  of  thy  parts,    , 
And  thou  art  wedded  to  calamity. 

Rom.  Father,  what  news?  what  is  the  prince's 
doom  ? 
What  sorrow  craves  acquaintance  at  my  hand. 
That  I  yet  know  not  ? 

Fri.  Too  familiar 

Is  my  dear  son  with  such  sour  company  : 
I  bring  thee  tidings  of  the  prince's  doom. 
Rom.  What  less  than  dooms- day  is  the  prince's 

doom? 
Fri.  A  gentler  judgment  vanish'd  from  his 
lips, 
Not  body's  death,  but  body's  banishment. 

Rom.  Ha!  banishment?  be  merciful,  say 

death.  ir  iwoi.-iiV  cd^. 

For  exile  hath  more  terror  in  his  look, ■'','' 

Much  more  than  death  rdonotsay— banishment."'"' 

49 


Act  IU] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III. 


Fri.  Here*  from  Verona  art  thou  banished: 
Be  patient,  for  the  world  is  broad  and  wide. 

Rom.  There  is  no  world  without  Verona  walls, 
But  purgatory,  torture,  hell  itself. 
Hence-banished  is  banish'd  from  the  world. 
And  world's  exile  is  death : — then  banished 
Is  death  mis-term'd.   Calling  death  banishment, 
Thou  cutt'st  my  head  off  with  a  golden  axe, 
And  smil'st  upon  the  stroke  that  murthers  me. 
Fri.  O  deadly  sin  !  O  rude  unthankfulness  ! 
Thy  fault  our  law  calls  death ;  but  the  kind 

prince, 
Taking  thy  part,  hath  rush'd  aside  the  law, 
Andturn'dthat  black  word  death  to  banishment. 
This  is  dear  mercy,  and  thou  seest  it  not. 
Rom.  'T  is  torture,  and  not  mercy:  heaven 
is  here, 
Where  Juliet  lives ;  and  every  cat,  and  dog, 
And  little  mouse,  every  unworthy  thing, 
Live  here  in  heaven,  and  may  look  on  her. 
But  Romeo  may  not. — More  validity. 
More  honourable  state,  more  courtship  lives 
In  carrion  flies,  than  Romeo :  they  may  seize 
On  the  white  wonder  of  dear  Juliet's  hand. 
And  steal  immortal  blessing  from  her  lips ; 
Who,  even  in  pure  and  vestal  modesty, 
Still  blush,  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin  ; 
This  may  flies  do,  when  I  from  this  must  fly — 
(And  say'st  thou  yet,  that  exile  is  not  death) — 
But  Romeo  may  not,  he  is  banished. '' 
Hadst  thou  no  poison  mix'd,  no  sharp-ground 

knife. 
No  sudden  mean  of  death,  though  ne'er  so  mean, 
But — banished — to  kill  me  ;  banished  ? 
O  friar,  the  damned  use  that  world  in  hell : 
Howlings  attend  it :  How  hast  thou  the  heart, 
Being  a  divine,  a  ghostly  confessor, 
A  sin-absolver,  and  my  friend  profess'd. 
To  mangle  me  with  that  word — banished? 
Fri.  Thou  fond  mad  man,  hear  me  a  little 

speak.* 
Rom.  O,  thouwiltspeakagain  of  banishment. 
Fri.  I  '11  give  thee  armour  to  keep  off  that 
word ; 
Adversity's  sweet  milk,  philosophy. 
To  comfort  thee,  though  thou  art  banished. 

Rom.  Yet  banished  ? — Hang  up  philosophy  ! 
Unless  philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet, 

"  {A),  Hence. 

b  We  have  restored  this  passage  to  the  reading  of  the  folio. 
The  lines  were  transposed  by  Steevens,  without  regard  to  any 
copy.  In  the  first  quarto  the  passage  is  altogether  different. 
In  that  of  1609,  it  runs  thus  :— 

"  This  may  flies  do,  when  I  from  this  must  fly  ;— 
(And  say'st  thou  yet  that  exile  is  not  death) — 
But  Romeo  may  not,  he  is  banished. 
Flies  may  do  this,  but  I  from  this  must  fly. 
They  are  free  men,  but  I  am  banished." 
'  Thus  (O). 
50 


Displant  a  town,  reverse  a  prince's  doom  ; 
It  helps  not,  it  prevails  not,  talk  no  more. 
Fri.  O,  then  I  see  that  madmen  have  no  ears. 
Rom.  How  should  they,  when  that  wise  men 

have  no  eyes  ? 
Fri.  Let  me  dispute  with  thee  of  thy  estate. 
Rom.  Thou  canst  not  speak  of  what  thou 
dost  not  feel ; 
Wert  thou  as  young  as  I,  Juliet  thy  love. 
An  hour  but  married,  Tybalt  murthered. 
Doting  like  me,  and  like  me  banished. 
Then  might'st  thou  speak,  then  might'st  thou 

tear  thy  haii'. 
And  fall  upon  the  ground,  as  I  do  now, 
Taking  the  measure  of  an  unmade  grave. 
Fri.  Arise ;  one  knocks ;  good  Romeo,  hide 
thyself.  \^Knoching  within. 

Rom.  Not  I;  unless  the  breath  of  heart-sick 
groans. 
Mist-like,  infold  me  from  the  search  of  eyes. 

\^Knocking. 

Fri.  Hark,  howthey  knock ! — Who's  there? 

— Romeo,  arise; 

Thou  wilt  be  taken : — Stay  a  while  ; — stand 

up ;  \^Knoching. 

Run  to  my  study : — By  and  by : — God's  will ! 

What  simpleness*  is  this? — I  come,  I  come. 

\^Knoching. 
Who   knocks  so   hard  ?   whence  come  you  ? 
what 's  your  will  ? 
Nurse.  [  Witliin.'\  Let  me  come  in,  and  you 
shall  know  my  errand ; 
I  come  from  lady  Juliet. 

Fri.  Welcome  then. 

Enter  Nurse. 
Nurse,  O  holy  friar,  O  tell  me,  holy  friar. 
Where  is  my  lady's  lord,  where 's  Romeo  ? 
Fri.  There  on  the  ground,  with  his  own  tears 

made  drunk. 
Nurse.  0,  he  is  even  in  my  mistress'  case, 
Just  in  her  case ! 

Fri.  O  woeful  sympathy ! 

Piteous  predicament ! 

Nurse.  Even  so  lies  she, 

Blubbering  and  weeping,  weeping  and  blub- 
bering : — 
Stand  up,  stand  up ;  stand,  an  you  be  a  man  : 
For  Juliet's  sake,  for  her  sake,  rise  and  stand  ; 
Why  should  you  fall  into  so  deep  an  O? 
Rom.  Nurse  ! 
Nurse.  Ah  sir  !  ah  sir  ! — Well,  death's  the 

end  of  all. 
Rom.  Speak'st  thou  of  Juliet  ?  how  is  it  with 
her? 

a  {A),  wilfulness. 


Act  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


Doth  not  she  think  me  an  old  murtherer, 
Now  I  have  stahi'd  the  childhood  of  our  joy 
With  blood  remov'd  but  little  from  her  own  ? 
Where  is  she  ?  and  how  doth  she  ?  and  what 

says 
My  conceal'd  lady  to  our  cancell'd  love  ? 
Nurse.  O,  she  says  nothing,  sir,  but  weeps 
and  weeps ; 
And  now  falls  on  her  bed ;  and  then  starts  up, 
And  Tybalt  calls ;  and  then  on  Romeo  cries, 
And  then  down  falls  again. 

Mom.  As  if  that  name, 

Shot  from  the  deadly  level  of  a  gun, 
Did  murther  her ;  as  that  name's  cursed  hand 
Murther'd  her  kinsman. — O  tell  me,  friar,  tellme. 
In  what  vile  part  of  this  anatomy, 
Doth  my  name  lodge  ?  tell  me,  that  I  may  sack 
The  hateful  mansion.  \^Draws  his  sword. 

Fri.  Hold  thy  desperate  hand  : 

Art  thou  a  man  ?  thy  form  cries  out  thou  art ; 
Thy  tears  are  womanish ;  thy  wild  acts  denote 
The  unreasonable  fury  of  a  beast : 
Unseemly  woman,  in  a  seeming  man ! 
And  ill-beseeming  beast,  in  seeming  both ! 
Thou  hast  amaz'd  me :  by  my  holy  order, 
I  thought  thy  disposition  better  temper'd. 
Hast  thou  slain  Tybalt?  wilt  thou  slay  thyself? 
And  slay  thy  lady  that  in  thy  life  lives,* 
By  doing  damned  hate  upon  thyself? 
Why  rail'st  thou  on  thy  birth,  the  heaven,  and 

earth  ? 
Since  birth,  and  heaven,  and  earth,  all  tliree 

do  meet 
In  thee  at  once ;  which  thou  at  once  would'st 

lose. 
Fie,  fie!   thou  sham'st  thy  shape,  thy   love, 

thy  wit ; 
Which,  like  an  usurer,  abound'st  in  all. 
And  usest  none  in  that  true  use  indeed 
Which  would  bedeck  thy  shape,  thy  love,  thy 

wit. 
Thy  noble  shape  is  but  a  form  of  wax. 
Digressing  from  the  valour  of  a  man : 
Thy  dear  love  sworn,  but  hollow  perjury. 
Killing  that  love  which  thou  hast  vow'd  to 

cherish  : 
Thy  wit,  that  ornament  to  shape  and  love. 
Mis-shapen  in  the  conduct  of  them  both. 
Like  powder  in  a  skill-less  soldier's  flask,' 
Is  set  on  fire  by  thine  own  ignorance. 
And  thou  dismember'd  with  thine  own  defence. 
What,  rouse  thee,  man !  thy  Juliet  is  alive, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  wast  but  lately  dead ; 
There  art  thou  happy  :  Tybalt  would  kill  thee, 

•  (A)  reads: 

"  And  slay  thy  lady,  loo,  thai  lives  in  thee." 


But  thou  slew'st  Tybalt ;  there  art  thou  happy :» 
The  law,   that  threaten'd  death,  became  thy 

friend. 
And  turn'd  it  to  exile;  there  art  thou  happy  : 
A  pack  of  blessing  lights  upon  thy  back ; 
Happiness  courts  thee  in  her  best  array ; 
But,  like  a  misbehav'd''  and  sullen  wench. 
Thou  puttest  up'=  thy  fortune  and  thy  love: 
Take  heed,  take  heed,  for  such  die  miserable. 
Go,  get  thee  to  thy  love,  as  was  decreed. 
Ascend  her  chamber,  hence  and  comfort  her ; 
But,  look,  thou  stay  not  till  the  watch  be  set. 
For  then  thou  canst  not  pass  to  Mantua ; 
Where  thou  shalt  live,  till  we  can  find  a  time 
To  blaze  your  marriage,  reconcile  your  friends, 
Beg  pardon  of  thy  prince,  and  call  thee  back 
With  twenty  hundred  thousand  times  more  joy 
Than  thou  went'st  forth  in  lamentation. 
Go  before,  nurse :  commend  me  to  thy  lady ; 
And  bid  her  hasten  all  the  house  to  bed, 
Which  heavy  sorrow  makes  them  apt  unto  : 
Romeo  is  coming. 

Nurse.  O  Lord,  I  could  have  stay'd  here  all 
the  night, 
To  hear  good  counsel :  O,  what  learning  is ! — 
My  lord,  I  '11  tell  my  lady  you  will  come. 
Mom.  Do  so,  and  bid  my  sweet  prepare  to 

chide. 
Nurse.  Here,  sir,  a  ring  she  bid  me  give  you, 
sir: 
Hie  you,  make  haste,  for  it  grows  very  late, 

[JEzit  Nurse. 
Mom.  How  well  my  comfort  is  reviv'd  by 

this! 
Fri.  Go  hence :  Good  night ;  and  here  stands 
all  your  state ; 
Either  begone  before  the  watch  be  set, 
Or  by  the  break  of  day  disguis'd  from  hence ; 
Sojourn  in  Mantua  ;  I  '11  find  out  your  man. 
And  he  shall  signify  from  time  to  time 
Every  good  hap  to  you,  that  chances  here ; 
Give  me  thy  hand;  'tis  late:  farewell;  good 
night. 
Mom.  But  that  a  joy  past  joy  calls  out  on 
me. 
It  were  a  grief  so  brief  to  part  with  thee : 
Farewell.  [Fxeunt. 

SCENE  TV.— A  Moom  in  Capulet's  House. 
Enter  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  and  Paeis. 
Cap.  Things  have  fallen  out,  sir,  so  unluckily 

»  (A),  which  modem  editors  have  followed,  gives  "  happy 
too." 

•>  Thus  (A).     The  folio,  mis-shaped. 

"=  PuUest-up.  So  the  folio.  (I»)  reads  pauls  thy  fortune, 
which  modern  editors  have  adopted,  with  the  addition  of 
upon.     Is  to  put  up  used  as  to  put  aside? 

51 


Act  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET, 


[Scene  V. 


That  we  have  had  no  time  to  move  our  daughter : 
Look  you,  she  lov'd  her  kinsman  Tybalt  dearly, 
And  so  did  I ; — Well;  we  were  born  to  die. — 
'T  is  very  late,  she'll  not  come  down  to-night: 
I  promise  you,  but  for  your  company, 
I  would  have  been  a-bed  an  hour  ago. 

Par.  These  times  of  woe  aiford  no  time  to 

woo; 
Madam,  good  night:  commend  me  to  your 

daughter. 
La.  Cap.  I  will,  and  know  her  mind  early 

to-morrow ; 
To-night  she 's  mew'd*  up  to  her  heaviness. 

Cap.  Sir  Paris,  I  will  make  a  desperate  tender 
Of  my  child's  love  :  I  think,  she  will  be  rul'd 
In  all  respects  by  me  ;  nay  more,  I  doubt  it  not. 
Wife,  go  you  to  her  ere  you  go  to  bed ; 
Acquaint  her  here  of  my  son  Paris'  love  ; 
And  bid  her,  mark  you  me,  on  Wednesday 

next — 
But,  soft ;  What  day  is  this  ? 
Par.  Monday,  my  lord. 

Cap.  Monday  ?  ha !  ha !  Well,  Wednesday 

is  too  soon, 
O'  Thursday  let  it  be ; — o'  Thursday,  tell  her, 
She  shall  be  married  to  this  noble  earl : — 
Will  you  be  ready  ?  do  you  like  this  haste  ? 
We'll  keep  no  great  ado  ; — a  friend,  or  two: — 
For  hark  you,  Tybalt  being  slain  so  late 
It  may  be  thought  we  held  him  carelessly, 
Being  our  kinsman,  if  we  revel  much : 
Therefore  we  '11  have  some  half  a  dozen  friends, 
And  there  an  end.     But  what  say  you  to  Thurs- 
day? 
Par.  My  lord,  I  would  that  Thursday  were 

to-morrow. 
Cap.  Well,  get  you  gone : — O'  Thursday,  be 

it  then: — 
Go  you  to  Juliet  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
Prepare  her,  wife,  against  this  wedding-day. — 
Farewell,  my  lord. — Light  to  my  chamber,  ho  ! 
Afore  me,  it  is  so  very  late,  that  we 
May  call  it  early  by  and  by : — Good  night. 

l^Ezeunt. 

SCENE  Y.— Loggia  to  Juliet's  Chamber.* 

Enter  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

Jul.  WUt  thou  be  gone  ?  it  is  not  yet  near 
day: 
It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierc'd  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear ; 
Nightly  she  sings  on  yon  pomegranate  tree:^ 
Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

»  Another  terra  of  falconry.    The  mew  is  the  hawk's  cage. 

62 


Jtom.  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn,6 
No  nightingale :  look,  love,  what  envious  streaks 
Do  lace  the  severing  clouds  in  yonder  east : 
Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountains'  tops  ; 
I  must  be  gone  and  live,  or  stay  and  die. 

Jul.  Yon  light  is  not  daylight,  I  know  it,  I : 
It  is  some  meteor  that  the  sun  exhales, 
To  be  to  thee  this  night  a  torch-bearer, 
And  light  thee  on  thy  way  to  Mantua: 
Therefore  stay  yet,  thou  need'st  not  to  be  gone. 

Rom.  Let  me  be  ta'en,  let  me  be  put  to 
death ; 
I  am  content,  so  thou  wilt  have  it  so. 
I  '11  say,  yon  grey  is  not  the  morning's  eye, 
'T  is  but  the  pale  reflex  of  Cynthia's  brow  ; 
Nor  that  is  not  the  lark,  whose  notes  do  beat 
The  vanity  heaven  so  high  above  our  heads : 
I  have  more  care  to  stay  than  will  to  go  ; 
Come,  death,  and  welcome !  Juliet  wills  it  so. — 
How  is  't,  my  soul  ?  let 's  talk,  it  is  not  day. 

Jul.  It  is,  it  is,  hie  hence,  be  gone,  away; 
It  is  the  lark  that  sings  so  out  of  tune, 
Straining  harsh  discords,  and  unpleasing  sharps. 
Some  say,  the  lark  makes  sweet  division  ;* 
This  doth  not  so,  for  she  divideth  us : 
Some  say,  the  lark  and  loathed  toad  change 

eyes; 
O,  now  I  would  they  had  chang'd  voices  too  ! 
Since  arm  from  arm  that  voice  doth  us  affray, 
Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunts-up  to  the  day.' 
O,  now  be  gone ;  more  light  and  light  it  grows. 

Rom.  More  light  and  light  ? — more  dark  and 
dark  our  woes. 

Enter  Nurse. 
Nurse.  Madam! 
Jul.  Nurse? 

Nurse.  Your  lady  mother  's  coming  to  your 
chamber : 
The  day  is  broke ;  be  wary,  look  about. 

[Exit  Nurse. 
Jul.  Then,  window,  let  day  in,  and  let  life  out. 
Rom.  Farewell,  farewell !  one  kiss,  and  I'U 
descend.  [Romeo  descends. 

Jul.  Art  thou  gone  so  ?  love !  lord !  ay — 
husband,  friend !  ^ 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days : 


a  Sweet  division.  A  division  in  music  is  a  number  of 
quicic  notes  sung  to  one  syllable ;  a  kind  of  warbling.  This 
continued  to  prevail  in  vocal  music  till  rather  recently. 
Handel,  governed  by  custom  rather  than  by  his  own  better 
taste,  introduces  divisions  in  many  of  his  airs  and  choruses. 
Steevens,  in  his  note  on  this  word,  mistakes  the  meaning 
entirely. 

b  {A)  reads  "  my  love,  my  lord,  my  friend,"  which  has 
supplied  the  modem  text' 


Act  III.] 


EOMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


O !  by  this  count  I  sliall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo. 

Rom.  Farewell !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 
That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 
Jul.  O,  think'st  thou,  we  shall  ever  meet 

again  ? 
Rom.  I  doubt  it  not;  and  all  these  woes 
shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 

Jul.  O  God  !  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul ; » 
Metliinks,  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  so  low,  * 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb  : 
Either  my  eyesight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 
Rom.  And  trust  me,  love,  in  my  eye  so  do 
you: 
Dry  sorrow  drinks  our  blood.    Adieu  !  adieu  ! 

[Exit  Romeo. 
Jul.  O  fortune,  fortune !  all  men  call  thee 
fickle : 
If  thou  art  fickle,  what  dost  thou  with  him 
That  is  renown' d  for  faith  ?    Be  fickle,  fortune ; 
For  then,  I  hope,  thou  wilt  not  keep  him  long, 
But  send  him  back. 
La.  Cap.  [  Within.]  Ho,  daughter !  are  you 

up? 
Jul.  Who  is 't  that  calls  ?  is  it  my  lady  mo- 
ther? 
Is  she  not  down  so  late,  or  up  so  early  ? 
What  unaccustom'd  cause  procures  her  hither? 

Enter  Lady  Capulet. 

Za,  Cap.  Why,  how  now,  Juliet  ? 
Jul.  Madam,  I  am  not  well. 

La.  Cap.  Evermore  weeping  for  your  cou- 
sin's death  ? 
What,  wilt  thou  wash  him  from  his  gi*ave  with 

tears  ? 
An  if  thou  could'st,  thou  could'st  not  make  him 

live : 
Therefore,  have  done :  some  grief  shews  much 

of  love ; 
But  much  of  grief  shews  still  some  want  of  wit. 
Jul.  Yet  let  me  weep  for  such  a  feeling  loss. 
La.  Cap.  So  shall  you  feel  the  loss,  but  not 
the  friend 
Which  you  weep  for. 

Jul.  Feeling  so  the  loss, 

I  cannot  choose  but  ever  weep  the  friend. 
La.  Cap.  Well,  girl,  thou  weep'st  not  so  much 
for  his  death. 
As  that  the  villain  lives  which  slaughter'd  him. 
Jul.  What  villain,  madam  ? 
La.  Cap.  That  same  villain,  Romeo. 

Jul.  Villain  and  he  be  many  miles  asunder. 

»  {A),  below. 


God  pardon  liim  !  I  do,  with  all  my  heart ; 
And  yet  no  man,  like  he,  doth  grieve  my  heart. 

La.  Cap.  That  is,  because  the  traitor  lives. 

Jul.  Ay,  madam,  from  the  reach  of  these  my 
hands. 
'  Would,  none  but  I  might  venge  my  cousin's 
death ! 

La.  Cap.  We  will  have  vengeance  for  it,  fear 
thou  not : 
Then  weep  no   more.     I'll  send  to   one   in 

Mantua, — 
Where  that  samebanish'd  runagate  doth  live, — 
Shall  give  him  such  an  unaccustom'd  dram,' 
That  he  shall  soon  keep  Tybalt  company : 
And  then  I  hope  thou  wilt  be  satisfied. 

Jul.  Indeed,  I  never  shall  be  satisfied 
With  Romeo,  tUl  I  behold  him.     Dead — 
Is  my  poor  heart,  so  for  a  kinsman  vex'd; 
Madam,  if  you  could  find  out  but  a  man 
To  bear  a  poison,  I  would  temper  it ; 
That  Romeo  should,  upon  receipt  thereof. 
Soon  sleep  in  quiet.     O,  how  my  heart  abhors 
To  hear  him  nam'd — and  cannot  come  to  him, — 
To  wreak  the  love  I  bore  my  cousin 
Upon  his  body  that  hath  slaughter'd  him ! 

La.  Cap.  Find  thou  the  means,  and  I  '11  find 
such  a  man. 
But  now  I  '11  teU  thee  joyful  tidings,  girl. 

Jul.  And  joy  comes  well  in  such  a  needy  •" 
time: 
What  are  they,  I  beseech  your  ladyship? 

La.  Cap.  Well,  well,  thou  hast  a  careful 
father,  child ; 
One,  who,  to  put  thee  from  thy  heaviness, 
Hath  sorted  out  a  sudden  day  of  joy. 
That  thou  expect' st  not,  nor  I  look'd  not  for. 

Jul.  Madam,  in  happy  time,  what  day   is 
that? 

La.  Cap.  Marry,  my  child,  early  next  Thurs- 
day morn, 
The  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman. 
The  county  Paris,  at  St.  Peter's  church, 
Shall  happily  make  thee  a  joyful  bride. 

Jul.  Now,  by  St.  Peter's  church,  and  Peter 
too. 
He  shall  not  make  me  there  a  joyful  bride. 
I  wonder  at  this  haste ;  that  I  must  wed 
Ere  he,  that  should  be  husband,  comes  to  woo. 
I  pray  you  tell  my  lord  and  father,  madam, 
I  will  not  marry  yet ;  and,  when  I  do,  I  swear. 
It  shall  be  Romeo,  whom  you  know  I  hate. 
Rather  than  Paris : — These  are  news  indeed ! 

"  We  have  again  a  made-up  text  in  modem  editions.  (.A) 
(the  other  lines  being  different)  has, 

"  That  shall  bestow  on  him  so  sure  a  draught." 
b  (A),  needful. 

53 


Act  III.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


La.  Cap.  Here  comes  your  father ;  tell  hira 
so  yourself, 
And  see  how  he  will  take  it  at  your  hands. 

Enter  Capulet  and  Nurse. 
Cap.  When  the  sun  sets,  the  earth*  doth 
drizzle  dew ; 

But  for  the  sunset  of  my  brother's  son, 

It  rains  downright. — 

How  now  ?  a  conduit,  girl  ?  what,  still  in  tears? 

Evermore  showering  ?     In  one  little  body 

Thou  counterfeit' st  a  bark,  a  sea,  a  wind  : 

For  still  thy  eyes,  which  I  may  call  the  sea. 

Do  ebb  and  flow  with  tears ;  the  bark  thy  body  is, 

Sailing  in  this  salt  flood ;  the  winds,  thy  sighs ; 

Who, — raging  with  thy  tears,  and  they  with 
them, — 

Without  a  sudden  calm,  will  overset 

Thy  tempest-tossed  body. — How  now,  wife  ? 

Have  you  deliver'd  to  her  our  decree  ? 
La.  Cap.  Ay,  sir ;   but  she  will  none,  she 
gives  you  thanks. 

I  would  the  fool  were  married  to  her  grave ! 
Cap.  Soft,  take  me  with  you,  take  me  with 
you,  wife. 

How!  will  she  none?   doth  she  not  give  us 
thanks  ? 

Is  she  not  proud?  doth  she  not  count  her  bless' d, 

Unworthy  as  she  is,  that  we  have  wrought 

So  worthy  a  gentleman  to  be  her  bridegroom  ? 
Jul.  Not  proud,  you  have ;   but  thankful, 
that  you  have : 

Proud  can  I  never  be  of  what  I  hate ; 

But  thankful  even  for  hate,  that  is  meant  love."^ 
Cap.  How   now !    how    now,    chop-logic ! 
What  is  this  ? 

Proud, — and,  I  thank  you, — and,  I  thank  you 
not ; — "^ 

Thank  me  no  thankings,   nor  proud  me   no 
prouds. 

But  settle  your  fine  joints  'gainst  Thursday  next, 

To  go  with  Paris  to  St.  Peter's  church. 

Or  I  will  drag  thee  on  a  hurdle  thither. 

Out,  you  green-sickness  carrion !  out,  you  bag- 
gage! 

You  tallow  face ! 
La.  Cap.  Fie,  fie !  what,  are  you  mad? 

Jul.  Good  father,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees. 

Hear  me  with  patience  but  to  speak  a  word. 
Cap.  Hang  thee,  young  baggage !  disobe- 
dient wretch ! 

I  tell  thee  what, — get  thee  to  church'o'  Thursday, 

Or  never  after  look  me  in  the  face : 

»  {D)  gives  us  air,  which  the  modern  editors  have  followed. 

•>  Meant  love — meant  as  love. 

'  (C)  has  this  line,  which  is  not  in  the  folio  :  — 

"  And  yet  not  proud  j^Mistress,  minion,  you." 
54 


Speak  not,  reply  not,  do  not  answer  me  ; 

My  fingers  itch.— Wife,  we  scarce  thought  us 

bless'd. 
That  God  had  lent*  us  but  this  only  child ; 
But  now  I  see  this  one  is  one  too  much. 
And  that  we  have  a  curse  in  having  her : 
Out  on  her,  hilding  ! 

Nurse.  God  in  heaven  bless  her  !  — 

You  are  to  blame,  my  lord,  to  rate  her  so. 

Cap.  And  why,  my  lady  wisdom?  hold  your 
tongue. 
Good  prudence ;  smatter  with  your  gossips,  go. 

Nurse.  I  speak  no  treason. 

Cap.  O,  God  ye  good  den ! 

Nurse.  May  not  one  speak  ? 

Cap.  Peace,  you  mumbling  fool ! 

Utter  your  gravity  o'er  a  gossip's  bowl, 
For  here  we  need  it  not. 

La.  Cap.  You  are  too  hot. 

Cap.  God's  bread !  it  makes  me  mad. 
Day,  night,  hour,  tide,  time,  work,  play. 
Alone,  in  company, *>  still  my  care  hath  been 
To  have  her  match'd ;  and  having  now  provided 
A  gentleman  of  noble  parentage. 
Of  fair  demesnes,  youthful,  and  nobly  train'd,' 
Stuff 'd  (as  they  say)  with  honourable  parts, 
Proportion'd  as  one's  heart  would  wish  a  man, — • 
And  then  to  have  a  wretched  puling  fool, 
A  whining  mammet,  in  her  fortune's  tender. 
To  answer — I  'II  not  wed — I  cannot  love, 
I  am  too  young, — I  pray  you,  pardon  me ; — 
But,  an  you  will  not  wed,  I  '11  pardon  you : 
Graze  where  you  will,  you  shall  not  house  with 

me : 
Look  to 't,  think  on 't,  I  do  not  use  to  jest. 
Thursday  is  near ;  lay  hand  on  heart,  advise  : 
An  you  be  mine,  I  '11  give  you  to  my  friend ; 
An  you  be  not,  hang,  beg,  starve,  die  i'  the 

streets, 
For,  by  my  soul,  I  '11  ne'er  acknowledge  thee. 
Nor  what  is  mine  shall  never  do  thee  good : 
Trust  to  't,  bethink  you,  I  '11  not  be  forsworn. 

{Exit. 
Jul.  Is  there  no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds. 
That  sees  into  the  bottom  of  my  grief? 
O,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away  ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  mouth,  a  week  ; 
Or,  if  you  do  not,  make  the  bridal  bed 
In  that  dim  monument  where  Tybalt  lies. 


*  {A),  sent. 

•>  Thus  (C)  and  folio.    {A),  which  has  been  partially  fol- 
lowed, has 

"  God's  blessed  mother!  Wife,  it  mads  me. 

Day,  night,  early,  late,  at  home,  abroad. 

Alone,  in  company,  waking  or  sleeping, 

Still  my  care  hath  been  to  see  her  match'd." 

"^  {A)  gives  traMd.     (Cj,  and  folio,  allied.  _ 


Act  in.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[SCENB  V. 


La.  Cap.  Talk  not  to  me,  for  I  '11  not  speak 
a  word ; 
Do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  have  done  with  thee. 

{Exit. 

Jul.  O  God  !— O  nurse!  how  shall  this  be 
prevented  ? 
My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven ; 
How  shall  that  faith  return  again  to  earth. 
Unless  that  husband  send  it  me  from  heaven 
By  leaving  earth? — comfort  me,  counsel  me. — 
Alack,  alack,  that  Heaven  should  practise  stra- 
tagems 
Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myself! — 
What  say'st  thou  ?  hast  thou  not  a  word  of  joy  ? 
Some  comfort,  nurse. 

Nurse.  'Faith,  here  't  is :  Romeo 

Is  banished ;  and  all  the  world  to  nothing, 
That  he  dares  ne'er  come  back  to  challenge  you ; 
Or,  if  he  do,  it  needs  must  be  by  stealth. 
Then,  since  the  case  so  stands  as  now  it  doth, 
I  think  it  best  you  married  with  the  county. 
O,  he  's  a  lovely  gentleman  ! 
Romeo 's  a  dishclout  to  him ;  an  eagle,  madam. 
Hath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye, 
As  Paris  hath.     Beshrew  my  very  heart, 


I  think  you  are  happy  in  this  second  matcli, 
For  it  excels  your  first :  or  if  it  did  not, 
Your  first  is  dead  ;  or  't  were  as  good  he  were, 
As  living  here  and  you  no  use  of  him. 

Jul.  Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart  ? 

Nui'se.  From  my  soul  too ; 

Or  else  beshrew  them  both. 

Jul.  Amen ! 

Nurse.  What  ? 

Jul.  WeU,  thou  hast  comforted  me  marvel- 
lous much. 
Go  in ;  and  tell  my  lady  I  am  gone. 
Having  displeas'd  my  father,  to  Laurence'  cell, 
To  make  confession,  and  to  be  absolv'd. 

Nurse.   Marry,  I  will ;  and  this  is  wisely 
done.  {Exit. 

Jul.  Ancient  damnation !    O  most  wicked 
fiend! 
Is  it  more  sin — to  wish  me  thus  forsworn, 
Or  to  dispraise  my  lord  with  that  same  tongue 
Which  she  hath  prais'd  him  with  above  compare 
So  many  thousand  times? — Go,  counsellor ; 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain. — 
I  '11  to  the  friar,  to  know  his  remedy ; 
If  all  else  fail,  myself  have  power  to  die.  {Exit. 


'"^/>^-•1    X'S 


35 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  IIL 


'  Scene  I. — "Affection  makes  him  false." 
There  is  a  slight  particle  of  untruth  in  Benvolio's 
statement,  which,  to  a  certain  degree,  justifies  this 
charge  of  Lady  Capulet.  Tybalt  was  bent  upon 
quarrelling  with  Romeo,  but  Mercutio  forced  on  his 
own  quarrel  with  Tybalt.  Dr.  Johnson's  remark  upon 
this  circumstance,  is  worthy  his  character  as  a  mo- 
ralist: — "The  charge  of  falsehood  on  Benvolio, 
though  produced  at  hazard,  is  very  just.  The  author, 
who  seems  to  intend  the  character  of  Benvolio  as 
good,  meant,  perhaps,  to  shew  how  the  best  minds,  in 
a  state  of  faction  and  discord,  are  detorted  to  crimi- 
nal partiality." 

^  Scene  II. — "  God  save  the  mark!" 
This  expression  occurs  in  the  first  part  of  Henry 
IV.,  in  Hotspur's  celebrated  speech  defending  the 
denial  of  his  prisoners.  In  Othello,  we  have  God  bless 
the  mark.  In  these  cases,  as  in  the  instance  before  us, 
the  commentators  leave  the  expression  in  its  original 
obscurity.  May  we  venture  a  conjecture  ?  The  m,ark 
which  persons  who  are  unable  to  write  make,  in- 
stead of  their  signature,  was  often  in  the  form  of  a 
cross;  but  anciently  the  use  of  this  mark  was  not 
confined  to  illiterate  persons,  for,  amongst  the  Saxons, 
the  mark  of  the  cross,  as  an  attestation  of  the  good 
faith  of  the  person  signing,  was  required  to  be  attached 
to  the  signature  of  those  who  could  write,  and  to  stand 
in  the  place  of  the  signature  of  those  who  could  not 
write.  (  See  Blackstone's  Commentaries.)  The  ancient 
use  of  the  mark  was  universal ;  and  the  word  mark 
was,  we  believe,  thus  taken  to  signify  the  cross.  God 
save  the  mark  was,  therefore,  a  form  of  ejaculation 
approaching  to  the  character  of  an  oath  ;  in  the  same 
manner  as  assertions  were  made  emphatic  by  the  ad- 
dition of  "  by  the  rood,"  or,  "  by  the  holy  rood." 

3  Scene  III. — "  Like  powder  i?i  a  skill-less  soldier's 
flask." 
The  force  and  propriety  of  this  comparison  are 
manifest ;  but  fully  to  understand  it,  we  must  know 
how  the  soldier  of  Shakspere's  time  was  accoutred. 
His  heavy  gun  was  fired  with  a  match,  his  powder 
was  carried  in  a  flask ;  and  the  match  and  the  powder, 
in  unskilful  hands,  were  doubtless,  sometimes,  pro- 
ductive of  accidents  ;  so  that  the  man-at-arms  was, 
like  Romeo  in  his  passion,  "  dismembered  with  his 
own  defence." 

*  Scene  V. — "  Julie fs  chamber." 

The  stage  direction  in  the  folio  edition  of  1623 

is,  "  Enter  Romeo  and  Juliet  aloft."     In  the  first 

quarto,  1597,  the  direction  is,  "  Enter  Romeo  and 

Juliet  at  the  window."     To  understand  these  direc- 

56 


tions,  we  must  refer  to  the  construction  of  the  old 
theatres.  "  Towards  the  rear  of  the  stage,"  says 
Malone,  "  there  appears  to  have  been  a  balcony  or 
upper  stage  ;  the  platform  of  which  was  probably 
eight  or  nine  feet  from  the  ground.  I  suppose  it  to 
have  been  supported  by  pillars.  From  hence,  in 
many  of  our  old  plays,  part  of  the  dialogue  was 
spoken  ;  and  in  the  front  of  it  curtains  likewise  were 
hung,  so  as  occasionally  to  conceal  the  [persons  in  it 
from  the  view  of  the  audience.  At  each  side  of 
this  balcony  was  a  box  very  inconveniently  situated, 
which  was  sometimes  called  the  jn-ivate  box.  In 
these  boxes,  which  were  at  a  lower  price,  some  per- 
sons sate,  either  from  economy  or  singularity. "  The 
balcony,  probably,  served  a  variety  of  purposes. 
Malone  says,  "  When  the  citizens  of  Angiers  are  to 
appear  on  the  walls  of  their  town,  and  young  Arthur 
to  leap  from  the  battlements,  I  suppose  our  ancestors 
were  contented  with  seeing  them  in  the  balcony  already 
described  ;  or,  perhaps,  a  few  boards  tacked  together, 
and  painted  so  as  to  resemble  the  rude  discoloured 
walls  of  an  old  town,  behind  which  a  platform  might 
have  been  placed  near  the  top,  on  which  the  citizens 
stood."  It  appears  to  us  probable  that  even  in  these 
cases  the  balcony  served  for  a  platform,  and  that  a 
few  painted  boards  in  front  supplied  the  illusion  of 
wall  and  tower.  There  was  still  another  use  of  the 
balcony.  According  to  Malone,  when  a  play  was 
exhibited  within  a  play,  as  in  Hamlet,  the  court,  or 
audience,  before  whom  the  interlude  was  performed, 
sate  in  the  balcony.  To  Malone's  historical  account  of 


^        ^__  .^^,       .,^ 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET, 


the  English  stage,  and  to  Mr.  Collier's  valuable  details 
regarding  theatres  (Annals  of  the  Stage,  vol.  iii.),  the 
reader  is  referred  for  fuller  details  upon  this  and  other 
points  which  bear  upon  the  economy  of  our  ancient 
drama.  We  prefix  a  representation  of  the  old  stage, 
with  its  balcony,  which  we  have  been  fortunate  in 
finding  engraved  in  the  title  page  to  Dr.  William 
Alabaster's  Latin  Tragedy  of  Roxana,  1632. 

*  Scene  V. — "  Nightly  she  sings  on  yo7i  pomegranate 
tree." 
In  the  description  of  the  garden  in  Chaucer's 
translation  of  the  "  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,"  the  pome- 
granate is  first  mentioned  amongst  the  fruit  trees  : — 
"  There  were  (and  that  wot  I  full  well) 
Of  pomegranates  a  full  great  deal." 
The  "  orchard  of  pomegranates  with  pleasant  fruits"' 
was  one  of  the  beautiful  objects  described  by  Solomon 
in  his  Canticles.  Amongst  the  fruit-bearing  trees,  the 
pomegranate  is  in  some  respects  the  most  beautiful ; 
and,  therefore,  in  the  south  of  Europe  and  in  the  East 
it  has  become  the  chief  ornament  of  the  garden.  But 
where  did  Shakspere  find  that  the  nightingale  haunted 
the  pomegranate  tree,  pouring  forth  her  song  from  the 
same  bough,  week  after  week?  Doubtless  in  some  of 
the  old  travels  with  which  he  was  familiar.  Chaucer 
puts  his  nightingale  "  in  a  fresh  green  laurel  tree  ;" 
but  the  preference  of  the  nightingale  for  the  pome- 
granate is  unquestionable.  "  The  nightingale  sings 
from  the  pomegranate  groves  in  the  day  time,"  says 
Russel  in  his  account  of  Aleppo.  A  friend,  whose 
observations  as  a  traveller  are  as  acute  as  his  descrip- 
tions are  graphic  and  forcible,  informs  us  that 
throughout  his  journeys  in  the  East  he  never  heard 
such  a  choir  of  nightingales  as  in  a  row  of  pome- 
granate trees  that  skirt  the  road  from  Smyrna  to 
Boudjia.  In  the  truth  of  details  such  as  these  the 
genius  of  Shakspere  is  as  much  exhibited  as  in  his 
wonderful  powers  of  generalization. 

6  Scene  V. — "  Itwas  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn." 

Shakspere's  power  of  describing  natural  objects  is 
unequalled  in  this  beautiful  scene,  which,  as  we  think, 
was  amongst  his  very  early  productions.  The  Venus 
and  Adonis,  published  in  1593,  is  also  full  of  this 
power.  Compare  the  following  passage  with  the 
description  of  morning  in  the  scene  before  us : — 
"  Lo!  here  the  gentle  lark,  weary  of  rest, 

From  his  moist  cabinet  mounts  up  on  high, 
And  wakes  the  morning,  from  whose  silver  breast, 
The  sun  ariseth  in  his  majesty  ; 

Who  doth  the  world  so  gloriously  behold, 

That  cedar-tops  and  hills  seem'd  bumish'd  gold." 

'  Scene  V. — "  Hunting  thee  hence  with  hunts-up 
to  the  day." 

There  was  one  Gray,  a  maker  of  "  certain  merry 
ballads,"  who,  according  to  Puttenham  in  his  "  Art  of 
English  Poesy"  (1589),  grew  into  good  estimation 
with  Henry  VIII.,  and  the  Protector  Somerset,  for 
the  said  merry  ballads,  "  whereof  one  chiefly  was. 
The  hunte  is  up,  the  hunte  is  up."  Douce  thinks  he 
has  recovered  the  identical  song,  which  he  reprints. 
One  stanza  will,  perhaps,  satisfy  our  readers  : — 

Tragedies. — Vol.  I.  I 


i  Sing  merrily  wee,  the  hunt  is  up ; 
The  birds  they  sing, 
The  deer  they  fling, 

Hey,  nony  nony — no  : 
The  hounds  they  crye. 
The  hunters  flye. 

Hey  trolilo,  trololilo. 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up." 

*  Scene  V. — "  O  God!  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul." 

Coleridge  has  some  remarks  upon  that  beautiful 
passage  in  Richard  II.,  where  the  Queen  says  : — 

"  Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  sorrow's  womb, 
Is  coming  toward  me ;" 

which  we  may  properly  quote  here  :  "  Mark  in  this 
scene  Shakspere's  gentleness  in  touching  the  tender 
superstitions,  the  terrce  incognita;  of  presentiments,  in 
the  human  mind ;  and  how  sharp  a  line  of  distinction 
he  commonly  draws  between  these  obscure  forecast- 
ings  of  general  experience  in  each  individual,  and  the 
vulgar  errors  of  mere  tradition.  Indeed,  it  may  be 
taken,  once  for  all,  as  the  truth,  that  Shakspere,  in  the 
absolute  universality  of  his  genius,  always  reverences 
whatever  arises  out  of  our  moral  nature ;  he  never 
profanes  his  muse  with  a  contemptuous  reasoning 
away  of  the  genuine  and  general,  however  unaccount- 
able, feelings  of  mankind." — (Literary  Remains,  vol. 
ii.  page  174.) — Shakspere  has  himself  given  us  the 
key  to  his  philosophy  of  presentiments.  Venus,  dread- 
ing the  death  of  Adonis  by  the  boar,  says  : — 

"  The  thought  of  it  doth  make  my  faint  heart  bleed ; 
Aad  fear  doth  teach  it  divination  ; 
I  prophesy  thy  death." 

Such  presentiments,  which  may  or  may  not  be  realised, 
appertain  to  the  imagination,  when  in  a  highly  ex- 
cited state.  Our  poet  has  exhibited  the  feeling  under 
three  different  aspects  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  when 
Romeo,  before  going  to  the  masquerade,  exclaims : — 

" my  mind  misgives 

Some  consequence  yet  hanging  in  the  stars. 
Shall  bitterly  begin  his  fearful  date 
With  this  night's  revels;" 

he  is  under  the  influence  of  bis  habitual  melancholy, — 
the  sentiment  of  unrequited  love,  which  colours  all 
his  imagination  with  a  gloomy  foreshadowing  of 
coming  events.  In  the  passage  before  us,  when 
Juliet  sees  her  husband 

"  As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb," 
we  have  "  the  fear"  which  doth  "  teach"  her  heart 
"  divination."  But  Romeo,  in  the  fifth  Act,  has  a 
presentiment  directly  contrary  to  the  approaching 
catastrophe :  and  this  arises  out  of  his  "  unaccustomed" 
animal  spirits : — 

"  My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne." 
All  these  states  of  mind  are  common  to  the  imagina- 
tion deeply  stirred  by  passionate  emotions.  Nothing, 
in  all  Shakspere's  philosophy,  appears  to  us  finer  than 
the  deceiving  nature  of  Romeo's  presages  in  the  last 
Act,  as  compared  with  the  true-divining  fears  of 
Juliet. 

57 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I. — Friar  Laurence's  cell. 
Enter  Friar  Laurence  and  Paris. 

Fri.  On  Thursday,  sir?  the  time  is  very  short. 

Par.  My  father  Capulet  -will  have  it  so  : 
And  I  am  nothing  slow,  to  slack  his  haste.^ 

J^n.Yousay,youdonotknowthelady'smind; 
Uneven  is  the  course,  I  like  it  not. 

Par.  Immoderately  she  weeps  for  Tybalt's 
death, 
And  therefore  have  I  little  talk'd  of  love : 
For  "Venus  smiles  not  in  a  house  of  tears. 
Now,  sir,  her  father  counts  it  dangerous. 
That  she  doth  give  her  sorrow  so  much  sway  ; 
And,  in  his  wisdom,  hastes  our  marriage, 
To  stop  the  inundation  of  her  tears ; 
Which,  too  much  minded  by  herself  alone. 
May  be  put  from  her  by  society : 
Now  do  you  know  the  reason  of  this  haste. 

Fri.  I  would  I  knew  not  why  it  should  be 

slow'd.  [Aside. 

Look,  sir,  here  comes  the  lady  towards  my  cell. 

n  In  {A)  the  passage  is 

"  And  I  am  nothing  slack  to  slow  his  haste." 
Jackson  conjectures  that  the  fn  of  all  the  editions  should  be 
too.     But  the  meaning  is  obvious  as  it  stands : — 

"  I  am  nothing  slow,  (so  as)  to  slack  his  haste." 

58 


Enter  Jvi.lKr. 

Par.  Happily  met,  my  lady,  and  my  wife ! 

Jul.  That  may  be,  sir,  when  I  may  be  a  wife. 

Par.  That  may  be,  must  be,  love,  on  Thurs- 
day next. 

Jul.  What  must  be  shall  be. 

Fri.  That 's  a  certain  text. 

Par.  Come  you  to  make  confession  to  this 
father  ? 

Jul.  To  answer  that,  I  should  confess  to  you. 

Par.  Do  not  deny  to  him,  that  you  love  me. 

Jul.  I  will  confess  to  you,  that  I  love  him. 

Par.  So  will  you,  I  am  sure,  that  you  love  me. 

Jul.  If  I  do  so,  it  will  be  of  more  price, 
Being  spoke  behind  your  back,  than  to  your  face. 

Par.  Poor   soul,  thy  face   is   much  abus'd 
with  tears. 

Jul.  The  tears  have  got  small  victory  by  that ; 
For  it  was  bad  enough,  before  their  spite. 

Par.  Thou  wrong' st  it,  more  than  tears,  with 
that  report. 

Jul.  That  is  no  slander,  sir,  which  is  a  truth ; 
And  what  I  spake,  I  spake  it  to  my  face. 

Par.  Thy  face  is  mine,  and  thou  hast  slan- 
der'd  it 


A«T  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[  SCENG  I . 


Jul.  It  may  be  so,  for  it  is  not  mine  own. — 
Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father,  now ; 
Or  shall  I  come  to  you  at  evening  mass  ? 

Fri.  My  leisure  serves  me,  pensive  daughter, 
now: 
My  lord,  we  must  eutreat  the  time  alone. 

Par.  God  shield,  I  should  disturb  devotion ! — 
Juliet,  on  Thursday  early  will  I  rouse  you : 
Till  then,  adieu !  and  keep  this  holy  kiss. 

[Exit  Paris. 

Jul.  O,  shut  the  door  !  and  when  thou  hast 
done  so, 
Come,  weep  with  me :  Past  hope,  past  care, 
past  help ! 

Fri.  O  Juliet,  I  already  know  thy  grief; 
It  strains  me  past  the  compass  of  my  wits; 
I  heai-  thou  must,  and  nothing  may  pi'orogue  it. 
On  Thursday  next  be  married  to  this  county. 

Jul.  Tell  me  not,  friar,  that  thou  hear'st  of  this. 
Unless  thou  tell  me  how  I  may  prevent  it : 
If,  in  thy  wisdom,  thou  canst  give  no  help, 
Do  thou  but  call  my  resolution  wise, 
And  with  this  knife  I  '11  help  it  presently. 
God  join'd  my  heart  and  Romeo's,  thou  our 

hands ; 
And  ere  this  hand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seal'd, 
Shall  be  the  label  to  another  deed, 
Or  my  true  heart  with  treacherous  revolt 
Turn  to  another,  this  shall  slay  them  both  : 
Therefore,  out  of  thy  long-experienc'd  time,* 
Give  me  some  present  counsel ;  or,  behold, 
'Twixt  my  extremes  and  me  this  bloody  knife 
Shall  play  the  umpire  ;  arbitrating  that 
Which  the  commission  of  thy  years  and  art 
Could  to  no  issue  of  true  honour  bring. 
Be  not  so  long  to  speak ;  I  long  to  die, 
If  what  thou  speak'st  speak  not  of  remedy. 

Fri.  Hold,  daughter ;  I  do  spy  a  kind  of  hope. 
Which  craves  as  desperate  an  execution 
As  that  is  desperate  which  we  would  prevent. 
If,  rather  than  to  marry  county  Paris, 
Thou  hast  the  strength  of  will  to  slay  thyself, 
Then  is  it  likely,  thou  wilt  undertake 
A  thing  like  death  to  chide  away  this  shame, 
That  cop'st  with  death  himself  to  'scape  from  it ; 
And,  if  thou  dar'st,  I  '11  give  thee  remedy. 

Jul.  O,  bid  me  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  •>  tower  ; 
Or  walk  in  thievish  ways ;  or  bid  me  lurk 
Where  serpents  are ;  chain  me  with  roaring 

bears ; 
Or  hide  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-house, 
O'er-cover'd  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling 
bones, 

»  Nine  lines,  ending  with  this,  arc  not  in  {A). 
^  In  [A),  t/onder.     In  (C)  and  folio,  ant/. 


With  reeky  shanks,  and  yellow  chapless  skulls  ; 
Or  bid  me  go  into  a  new-made  grave, 
And  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud ;' 
Things  that,  to  hear  them  told,  have  made  me 

tremble  ; 
And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt. 
To  live  an  unstain'd  wife  to  my  sweet  love. 
Fri.  Hold,  then ;  go  home,  be  merry,  give 

consent 
To  marry  Paris :  Wednesday  is  to-morrow ; 
To-morrow  night  look  that  thou  lie  alone, 
Let  not  thy  nurse  lie  with  thee  in  thy  chamber: 
Take  thou  this  phial,  being  then  in  bed, 
And  this  distilled  liquor  drink  thou  off; 
When,  presently,  through  all  thy  veins  shall 

run 
A  cold  and  drowsy  humour ;  for  no  pulse. 
Shall  keep  his  native  progress,  but  surcease.  •> 
No  warmth,  no  breath,  shall  testify  thou  liv'st ; 
The  roses  in  thy  lips  and  cheeks  shall  fade 
To  palyc  ashes;  thy  eyes'  windows  fall. 
Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life ; 
Each  part,  depriv'd  of  supple  government. 
Shall  stiff,  and  stark,  and  cold,  appear  like  death: 
And  in  this  borrow'd  likeness  of  shrunk  death 
Thou  shalt  continue  two-and-forty  hours. 
And  then  awake  as  from  a  pleasant  sleep. 
Now  when   the  bridegroom  in  the  morning 

comes 
To  rouse  thee  from  thy  bed,  there  art  thou  dead : 
Then  (as  the  manner  of  our  country  is) 
In  thy  best  robes,  uncover'd,  on  the  bier,> 
Be  borne  to  burial  in  thy  kindreds'  grave, "^ 
Thou  shalt  be  borne  to  that  same  ancient  vault. 
Where  all  the  kindred  of  the  Capulets  lie. 
In  the  mean  time,  against  thou  shalt  awake, 
Shall  Romeo  by  my  letters  know  our  drift ; 
And  hither  shall  he  come  ;  and  he  and  I 
Will  watch  thy  waking,  ®  and  that  very  night 
Shall  Romeo  bear  thee  hence  to  Mantua. 
And  this  shall  free  thee  from  this  present  shame ; 
If  no  inconstant  toy,  nor  womanish  fear, 
Abate  thy  valour  in  the  acting  it. 

*  In  (D),  shrmid.    In  folio,  grave. 

•>  {A)  gives  this  passage  thus : 

"  A  dull  and  heavy  slumber,  which  shall  seize 
Each  vital  spirit ;  for  no  pulse  shall  keep 
His  natural  progress,  but  surcease  to  beat." 
We  give  the  text  of  (C)  and  the  folio.     This  speech  of  the 
friar,  in  the  author's  "amended"  edition  (J?),  is  elaborated 
from  thirteen  lines  to  thirty-three ;  and  yet  the  modern  edi- 
tors have  been  bold  enough,  even  here,  to  give  us  a  text  made 
up  of  Shakspere's  first  thoughts  and  his  last. 

"  In  (D),  pall/.     In  (C),  many. 

"i  This  line,  which  is  in  all  the  ancient  copies,  has  been  left 
out  in  all  the  modern.  The  editors  have  here  gone  far  be- 
yond their  office  ; — nor  cau  we  understand  why  the  more  par- 
ticular working  out  of  the  idea  in  the  next  two  lines  should 
have  given  them  ofl'ence.     "Be borne"  means  "  to  be  borne." 

"  And  he  and  I  mill  watch  thy  waking,  is  omitted  in  the 
folio,  but  is  found  in  (C). 

59  ' 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III. 


Jul.  Give  nie,  give  me !  O  tell  not  me  of  fear. 
Fri.  Hold ;  get  you  gone,  be  strong  and 
prosperous 
In  this  resolve :  I  '11  send  a  friar  with  speed 
To  Mantua,  with  my  letters  to  thy  lord. 
Jul.  Love,  give  me  strength!  and  strength 
shall  help  afford. 
Farewell,  dear  father !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Capulet's  House. 

Enter  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  Nubse,  and 
Servants. 

Cap.  So   many   guests  invite   as  here   are 
writ. —  [Exit  Servant. 

Sirrah,  go  hire  me  twenty  cunning  cooks.^ 

2  Serv.  You  shall  have  none  ill,  sir ;  for  I  '11 
try  if  they  can  lick  their  iingers. 

Cap.  How  canst  thou  try  them  so? 

2  Serv.  Marry,  sir,'t  is  an  ill  cook  that  cannot 
lick  his  own  iingers  :  therefore  he,  that  cannot 
lick  his  fingers,  goes  not  with  me. 

Cap.  Go,  begone. —  [Exit  Servant. 

We  shall  be  much  unfurnish'd  for  this  time. — 
What,  is  my  daughter  gone  to  Friar  Laurence? 

Nurse.  Ay,  forsooth. 

Cap.  Well,  he  may  chance  to  do  some  good 
on  her : 
A  peevish  self-will'd  harlotry  it  is. 

Enter  Juliet. 
Nurse.  See,  where  she   comes  from  shrift 

with  merry  look. 
Cap.  How  now,  my  headstrong  ?  where  have 

you  been  gadding? 
Jul.  Where  I  have  learn'd  me  to  repent  the 
sin 
Of  disobedient  opposition 
To  you,  and  your  behests ;  and  am  enjoin'd 
By  holy  Laurence  to  fall  prostrate  here. 
To  beg  your  pardon : — Pardon,  I  beseech  you ! 
Henceforward  I  am  ever  rul'd  by  you. 

Cap.  Send  for  the  county ;  go  tell  him  of 
this; 
I  '11  have  this  knot  knit  up  to-morrow  morning. 
Jul.  I  met  the  youthful  lord  at  Laurence'  cell ; 
And  gave  him  what  becomed*  love  I  might, 
Not  stepping  o'er  the  bounds  of  modesty. 
Cap.  Why,  I  am  glad  on 't ;  this  is  well, — 
stand  up : 
This  is  as  't  should  be. — Let  me  see  the  county; 
Ay,  marry,  go,  I  say,  and  fetch  him  hither. — 
Now,  afore  God,  tliis  reverend  holy  friar, 
All  our  whole  city  is  much  bound  to  him. 


'  Bccomcd — becoming. 


60 


Jul.  Nurse,  will  you  go  with  me  into  my 
closet. 
To  help  me  sort  such  needful  ornaments 
As  you  tliink  fit  to  furnish  me  to-morrow  ? 
La.  Cap.  No,  not  till  Thursday ;  there   is 

time  enough. 
Cap.  Go,   nurse,  go  with  her : — we  '11  to 
church  to-morrow. 

[Exeunt  Juliet  and  Nurse. 
La.  Cap.  We  shall  be  short  in  our  provi- 
sion; 
'T  is  now  near  night. 

Cap.  Tush!  I  will  stir  about. 

And  all  things  shall  be  well,  I  warrant  thee, 

wife  : 
Go  thou  to  Juliet,  help  to  deck  up  her  ; 
I  '11  not  to  bed  to-night; — let  me  alone ; 
I  '11  play  the  housewife  for  this  once. — What, 

ho!— 
They  are  all  forth :  Well,  I  will  walk  myself 
To  county  Paris,  to  prepare  him  up 
Against  to-morrow :   my  heart  is   wondrous 

light. 
Since  this  same  wayward  girl  is  so  reclaim'd. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Juliet's  Chamber. 
Enter  Juliet  and  Nurse. 
Jul.  Ay,  those  attires  are  best: — But,  gentle 
nurse, 
I  pray  thee,  leave  me  to  myself  to-night ; 
For  I  have  need  of  many  orisons 
To  move  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  my  state. 
Which,  well  thou  know'st,  is  cross  and  full  of 
sin. 

Enter  Lady  Capulet. 
La.  Cap.  What,  are  you  busy,  ho?  Need 

you  "  my  help  ? 
Jul.  No,  madam;  we  have  cull'd  such  ne- 
cessaries 
As  are  behoveful  for  our  state  to-morrow : 
So  please  you,  let  me  now  be  left  alone, 
And  let  the  nurse  this  night  sit  up  with  you ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  have  your  hands  full  all, 
In  this  so  sudden  business. 

La.  Cap.  Good  night ! 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  rest ;  for  thou  hast  need. 
[Exeunt  Lady  Capulet  and  Nurse. 
Jul.  Farewell ! — God  knows,  when  we  shall 
meet  again. 
I  have  a  faint  cold  fear  thrills  through  my  veins. 
That  almost  freezes  up  the  heat  of  life : 
I  '11  call  them  back  again  to  comfort  me ; — 

»  {A),  Do  you  need  my  help? 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  IV. 


Nurse ! — What  should  she  do  here  ? 
My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone. — 
Come,  phial. —  / 

What  if  this  mixture  do  not  work  at  all  ? 
Shall  I  be  married  then  to-morrow  morning?" 
No,  no  5 — this  shall  forbid  it : — lie  thou  there. — 
[haying  down  a  dagger. 
What  if  it  be  a  poison,  which  the  friar 
Subtly  hath  minister'd  to  have  me  dead ; 
Lest  in  this  marriage  he  should  be  dishonour'd, 
Because  he  married  me  before  to  Romeo  ? 
I  fear,  it  is :  and  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not, 
For  he  hath  still  been  tried  a  holy  man : 
How  if,  when  I  am  laid  into  the  tomb, 
I  wake  before  the  time  that  Romeo 
Come  to  redeem  me  ?  there  's  a  fearful  point! 
Shall  I  not  then  be  stifled  in  the  vault, 
To  whose  foul  mouth  no  healthsome  air  breathes 

in. 
And  there  die  strangled  ere  my  Romeo  comes  ? 
Or,  if  I  live,  is  it  not  very  like, 
The  horrible  conceit  of  death  and  night. 
Together  with  the  terror  of  the  place, — 
As  in  a  vault,  s  an  ancient  receptacle. 
Where,  for  these  many   hundred  years,  the 

bones 
Of  all  my  buried  ancestors  are  pack'd ; 
Where  bloody  Tybalt,  yet  but  green  in  earth, 
Lies  fest'ring  in  his  shroud ;  where,  as  they 

say, 
At  some  hours  in  the  night  spirits  resort ; — 
Alac^,  alack !  is  it  not  like,  that  I, 
So  early  waking, — what  with  loathsome  smells ; 
And  shrieks  like  mandrakes'  torn  out  of  the  earth, 


•  This  speech  of  Juliet,  like  many  others  of  the  great  pas- 
sages throushout  the  play,  received  the  most  careful  elabora- 
tion and  the  most  minute  touching.  In  the  first  edition  it 
occupies  only  eighteen  lines;  it  extends  to  forty-five  in  the 
"amended"  edition  of  1599.  And  yet  the  modem  editors 
will  make  a  patchwork  of  the  two.  This  line  in  {A)  is 
thus  :  — 

"  Must  I  of  force  be  married  to  the  county  ?" 
The  line  which  follows  lower  down, 

"  I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought;" 
Steevens  says  he  has  recovered  from  the  quarto.     We  print 
the  eighteen  lines  of  the  original,  that  the  reader  may  see 
with  what  consummate  skill  the  author's  corrections  have 
been  made. 

"  Farewell,  God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again. 

Ah,  I  do  take  a  fearful  thing  in  hand. 

What  if  this  potion  should  not  work  at  all, 

Must  I  of  force  be  married  to  the  county  ? 

This  shall  forbid  it.     Knife,  lie  thou  there. 

What  if  the  friar  should  give  me  this  drink 

To  poison  me,  for  fear  I  should  disclose 

Our  former  marriage  ?     Ah,  I  wrong  him  much. 

He  is  a  holy  and  religious  man  : 

I  will  not  entertain  so  bad  a  thought. 

What  if  I  should  be  stifled  in  the  tomb  ? 

Awake  an  hour  before  the  appointed  time  : 

Ah,  then  I  fear  I  shall  be  lunatic  : 

And  playing  with  my  dead  forefathers'  bones, 

Dash  out  my  frantic  brains.     Methinks  I  see 

My  cousin  Tybalt  weltering  in  his  blood. 

Seeking  for  Romeo  :  Stay,  Tybalt,  stay. 

Romeo,  I  come,  this  do  1  drink  to  thee." 


That  living  mortals,  hearing  them,  run  mad; — 
O  !  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught. 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears  ? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints  ? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud  ? 
And,  in  this  rage,  with  some  great  kinsman's 

bone. 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
O,  look  !  methinks,  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point : — Stay,  Tybalt,  stay  ! — 
Romeo,  Romeo,  Romeo, — here's  drink — I  drink 

to  thee. 

\^She  throws  herself  on  the  bed. 

SCENE  IV.— Capulet's  Hall. 
Enter  Lady  Capulet  and  NuBSE. 

La.  Cap.  Hold,  take  these  keys,  and  fetch 

more  spices,  nurse; 
Nurse.  They  call  for  dates  and  quinces  in 
the  pastry. 

Enter  Capulet. 

Cap.  Come,  stir,  stir,  stir!  the  second  cock 
hath  crow'd. 
The  curfew  bell  hath  rung,  't  is  three  o'clock : — 
Look  to  the  bak'd  meats,  good  Angelica : — 
Spare  not  for  cost. 

Nurse.  Go,  you  cot-quean,  go. 

Get  you  to  bed ;  'faith,  you  'II  be  sick  to-morrow 
For  this  night's  watching. 

Cap.  No,  not  a  whit ;  What !  I  have  watch'd 
ere  now 
AU  night  for  lesser  cause,  and  ne'er  been  sick. 
La.  Cap.  Ay,  you  have  been  a  mouse-hunt 
in  your  time  ; 
But  I  will  watch  you  from  such  watching  now. 
[Exeunt  Lady  Capulet  and  Nukse. 
Cap.  A  jealous-hood,  a  jealous-hood! — Now, 
fellow, 
What 's  there  ? 

Enter  Servants,  with  spits,  logs,  and  baskets.* 

1  Serv.  Things  for  the  cook,  sir ;  but  I  know 

not  what. 
Cap.  Make  haste,  make  haste.  [Exit  1  Serv.] 
— Sirrah,  fetch  drier  logs ; 
Call  Peter,  he  will  shew  thee  where  they  are. 

2  Serv.  I  have  a  head,  sir,  that  will  find  out 

logs, 
And  never  trouble  Peter  for  the  matter.  [Exit. 
Cap.  'Mass,  and  well  said ;  A  merry  whore- 
son! ha, 

61 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


Thou  shalt  be  loggerhead. — Good  father, 't  is 

day: 
The  county  will  be  here  with  music  straight, 

[Music  within. 
For  so  he  said  he  would.  I  hear  him  near : — 
Nurse! — Wife! — what,   ho! — what,  nurse,   I 

say! 

Enter  Nurse. 

Go,  waken  Juliet,  go,  and  trim  her  up ; 
I'll  go  and  chat  with  Paris : — Hie,  make  haste, 
Make  haste !  the  bridegroom  he  is  come  al- 
ready : 
Make  haste,  I  say.  \_Exeunt, 

SCENE  V. — Juliet's  Chamber;  Juliet  ore  <Ae 
Bed. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Mistress! — what,  mistress! — Juliet! 
— fast,  I  warrant  her,  she : — 

Why,  lamb!— Why,  lady! — fie,  you  slug-a- 
bed!— 

Why,  love,  I  say! — madam!  sweetheart! — 
why,  bride  ! — 

What,  not  a  word? — you  take  your  penny- 
worths now; 

Sleep  for  a  week ;  for  the  next  night,  I  war- 
rant. 

The  county  Paris  liath  set  up  his  rest, 

That  you  shall  rest  but  little. — God  forgive 
me, 

(Marry,  and  amen ! )  how  sound  is  she  asleep ! 

I  must  needs  wake  her : — Madam,  madam, 
madam ! 

Ay,  let  the  county  take  you  in  your  bed  ; 

He  '11  fright  you  up,  i'  faith. — Will  it  not  be  ? 

What,  dress'd!  and  in  your  clothes!  and  down 
again ! 

I  must  needs  wake  you :  Lady !  lady !  lady ! 

Alas!  alas! — Help!  help!  my  lady's  dead! — 

O,  well-a-day,  that  ever  I  was  born ! — 

Some  aqua  vitse,  ho ! — my  lord !  my  lady ! 

Enter  Lady  Capulet. 

La.  Cap.  What  noise  is  here  ? 
Nurse.  O  lamentable  day ! 

La.  Cap.  What  is  the  matter? 
Nurse.  Look,  look !  O  heavy  day ! 

La.  Cap.  O  me,  O  me ! — my  child,  my  only 
life, 
Revive,  look  up,  or  I  will  die  with  thee ! 
Help,  help! — call  help. 
62 


Enter  Capulet. 
Cap.  For  shame,  bring  Juliet  forth  j  her  lord 

is  come. 
Nurse.  She 's  dead,  deceas'd,  she  's  dead ; 

alack  the  day ! 
La.  Cap.  Alack  the  day  !  she  's  dead,  she 's 

dead,  she 's  dead. 
Cap.  Ha!  let  me  see  her: — Out,  alas!  she's 
cold; 
Her  blood  is  settled,  and  her  joints  are  stiff; 
Life  and  these  lips  have  long  been  separated  : 
Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field.  * 
Nurse.  O  lamentable  day ! 
La.  Cap.  O  woeful  time! 

Cap.  Death,  that  hath  ta'en  her  hence  to 
make  me  wail. 
Ties  up  my  tongue,  and  will  not  let  me  speak. 

Enter  Friar  Ladrence  and  Paris,  with 
Musicians. 

Fri.  Come,  is  the  bride  ready  to  go  to  church  ? 

Cap.  Ready  to  go,  but  never  to  return  ! 
O  son,  the  night  before  thy  wedding  day 
Hath  Death  lain  with  thy  wife : — There  she  lies. 
Flower  as  she  was,  deflowered  by  him. 
Death  is  my  son-in-law,  Death  is  my  heir; 
My  daughter  he  hath  wedded  !  I  will  die. 
And  leave  him  all ;  life  leaving,  all  is  death's. 

Par.  Have  I  thought  long  to  see  this  morn- 
ing's face, 
And  doth  it  give  me  such  a  sight  as  this  ? 

La.  Cap.  Accurs'd,  unhappy,  wretched,  hate- 
ful day ! 
Most  miserable  hour,  that  e'er  time  saw 
In  lasting  labour  of  liis  pilgrimage  ! 
But  one,  poor  one,  one  poor  and  loving  child, 
But  one  thing  to  rejoice  and  solace  in. 
And  cruel  death  hath  catch'd  it  from  my  sight. 

Nurse.  O  woe !    O  woeful,  woeful,  woeful 
day! 
Most  lamentable  day  !  most  woeful  day, 
That  ever,  ever,  I  did  yet  behold ! 
O  day  !  O  day !  O  day !  0  hateful  day ! 
Never  was  seen  so  black  a  day  as  this : 
O  woeful  day,  O  woeful  day  ! 

Par.  Beguil'd,   divorced,  wronged,   spited, 
slain ! 
Most  detestable  Death,  by  thee  beguil'd, 
By  cruel  cruel  thee  quite  overthrown ! — 

a  In  the  original  we  want  these  four  exquisite  lines.  And 
yet  the  raodern  editors  have  thrust  in  the  single  line  which 
they  found  in  (A) : — 

"  Accursed  time,  unfortunate  old  man." 
Tlie  scene,  from  the  entrance  of  Capulet,  is  elaborated  from 
44  lines,  in  the  original,  to  74  lines. 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


O  love !  O  life! — not  life,  but  love  in  death! 

Cap.  Despis'd,  distressed,  liated,  martyr'd, 
kUrd!— 
Uncomfortable  time !  why  cam'st  thou  now 
To  murther,  murther,  our  solemnity  ? 
O  child!  O  child! — my  soul,  and  notmy  child! — 
Dead  art  thou ! — alack !  my  child  is  dead  ! 
And,  with  my  child,  my  joys  are  buried  ! 

Fri.  Peace,  ho,  for  shame  !  confusion's  cure 
lives  not 
In  these  confusions.     Heaven  and  yourself 
Had  part  in  this  fair  maid ;  now  heaven  hath 

all, 
And  all  the  better  is  it  for  the  maid : 
Your  part  in   her  you  could  not  keep  from 

death ; 
But  Heaven  keeps  his  part  in  eternal  life. 
The  most  you  sought  was  her  promotion  ; 
For 't  was  your  heaven,  she  should  be  advanc'd ; 
And  weep  ye  now,  seeing  she  is  advanc'd. 
Above  the  clouds,  as  high  as  heaven  itself  ? 
O,  in  this  love,  you  love  your  child  so  ill, 
That  you  run  mad,  seeing  that  she  is  well : 
She  's  not  well  married  that  lives  married  long; 
But  she's  best  married  that  dies  married  young. 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  stick  your  rosemary 
On  this  fair  corse  ;  and,  as  the  custom  is, 
In  all  her  best  array  bear  her  to  church : 
For  though  some  *  nature  bids  us  all  lament. 
Yet  nature's  tearo  ai'e  reason's  merriment. 

Cap,  All  things  that  we  ordained  festival. 
Turn  from  their  office  to  black  funeral : 
Our  instruments  to  melancholy  bells ; 
Our  wedding  cheer  to  a  sad  burial  feast ; 
Our  solemn  hymns  to  sullen  dirges  change ; 
Our  bridal  flowers  serve  for  a  buried  corse, 
And  all  things  change  them  to  the  contrary. 

Fri.  Sir,  go  you  in, — and,  madam,  go  with 
him ! — 
And  go,  sir  Paris ; — every  one  prepare 
To  follow  this  fair  corse  unto  her  grave. 
The  Heavens  do  low'r  upon  you,  for  some  ill ; 
Move  them  no  more,  by  crossing  their  high 
wUl. 
[^Exeunt  Capdlet,  Lady  Capulet,  Paris, 
and  Friab. 

1  Mus.  'Faith,  we  may  put  up  our  pipes,  and 
be  gone. 

Nurse.  Honest  good  fellows,  ah,  put  up,  put 

"P' 
For,  well  you  know,  this  is  a  pitiful  case. 

\^Exit  Nurse  . 

•  Some  nature.  Fond  nature  has  been  introduced  into 
the  text  from  the  second  folio.  The  difficulty  of  some  is  not 
manifest.  Some  nature  —  some  impulses  of  nature  —  some 
part  of  our  nature.  The  idea  may  have  suggested  the 
"  Some  natural  tears"  of  Milton. 


1  Mm.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  the  case  may  be 
amended. 

Enter  Peter. 

Pet.  Musicians,  O,  musicians,"*  Heart's  ease, 
heart's  ease;  O,  an  you  will  have  me  live,  play 
heart's  ease. 

1  Mus.  Why  heart's  ease  P 

Pet.  O  musicians,  because  my  heart  itself 
plays — My  heart  is  full:  O,  play  me  some  merry 
dump,a  to  comfort  me. 

2  Mm.9.  Not  a  dump  we ;  'tis  no  time  to  play 
now. 

Pet.  You  will  not  then  ? 

Mus.  No. 

Pet.  I  will  then  give  it  you  soundly. 

1  Mus.  What  will  you  give  us  ? 

Pet.  No  money,  on  my  faith ;  but  the  gleek  : 
I  will  give  you  the  minstrel. 

1  3Ius.  Then  will  I  give  you  the  serving- 
creature. 

Pet.  Then  will  I  lay  the  serving-creature's 
dagger  on  your  pate.  I  will  carry  no  crotchets : 
I  '11  re  you,  I  '11 /a  you  j''  Do  you  note  me  ? 

1  Mtts.  An  you  re  us,  and  fa  us,  you  note 

us. 

2  Mus.  Pray  you,  put  up  your  dagger,  and 
put  out  your  wit. 

Pet.  Then  have  at  you  with  my  wit ;  I  will 
dry-beat  you  with  an  iron  wit,  and  put  up  my 
iron  dagger : — Answer  me  like  men  :  t 

When  griping  griefs  the  heart  doth  wound, 
And  doleful  dumps  the  mind  oppress. 
Then  music,  with  her  silver  sound  j*^ 

Why,  silver  sound  ?  why  music  with  her  silver 

sound  ? 
What  say  you,  Simon  Catling?'* 

1  Mus.  Marry,  sir,  because  silver  hath  a 
sweet  sound. 

Pet.  Pretty!''     What  say  you,  Hugh  Re- 
beck?'' 

2  Mus.  I  say — silver  sound,  because  musi- 
cians sound  for  silver. 

Pet.  Pretty  too !  What  say  you,  James 
Soundpost  ? 

3  Mtis.  'Faith,  I  know  not  what  to  say. 
Pet.  O,  I  cry  you  mercy !  you  are  the  singer : 


*  Dump.  See  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  p.  47.  We 
shall,  hereafter,  have  a  better  opportunity  to  give  the  notes 
of  a  tune  called  a  Dump.  The  exclamation,  "  O  play  me," 
&c.  is  not  in  the  folio. 

*>  ru  RE  1/ou,  I'll  FA  yoti.  Re  and /a  are  the  syllables, 
or  names,  given  in  solmization,  or  sol-faing  to  the  sounds 
D  and  F  in  the  musical  scale. 

"  See  Illustrations  to  this  Act. 

^  Calling — a  lute  string. 

«  (C),  protest.  ,  j  j 

Rebeck — the  three-stringed  violin. 

63 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  V. 


I  will  say  for  you.  It  is — music  with  her  silver 
sound,  because  musicians  have  uo  gold  for 
sounding : — * 

Then  music  with  her  silver  sound. 
With  speedy  help  doth  lend  redress. 

[^Exit,  singing. 

"  In  {A)  we  have  "  suchfelimns  as  you  have  seldom  gold  for 
sounding;"  and  then  the  servant  calls  them  "fiddlers."     It  is 


1  Mus.  What  a  pestilent  knave  is  this  same  ! 

"2  Mus.  Hang  him,  Jack!    Come,  we'll  in 

here :  tarry  for  the  mourners,  and  stay  dinner. 

\_Exeunt. 


interesting  to  mark  the  change  in  the  corrected  copy.  Shak. 
spere  would  not  put  offensive  words  to  the  skilled  in  music, 
even  into  the  mouth  of  a  clownish  servant. 


64 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF   ACT   IV. 


'  Scene  I. — "  In  thy  best  robes,  uncover'd,  on  the  bier. " 

In  the  adaptation  of  Bandello's  tale,  in  Painter's 
"  Palace  of  Pleasure,"  we  have  "  they  will  judge  you 
to  be  dead,  and,  according  to  the  custom  of  our  city, 
you  shall  be  carried  to  the  churchyard  hard  by  our 
church."  The  Italian  mode  of  interment  is  given  in 
the  poem  of  Romeus  and  Juliet : — 

"  Another  use  there  is,  that  whosoever  dyes, 

Borne  to  their  church  with  open  face  upon  the  beere  he  lyes 
In  wonted  weede  attyrde,  not  wrapt  in  winding-sheet." 

Painter  has  no  description  of  this  custom  ;  but  Shak- 
spere  saw  how  beautifully  it  accorded  with  the  con- 
duct of  his  story,  and  he  therefore  emphatically  re- 
peats it  in  the  directions  of  the  Friar,  after  Juliet's 
supposed  death : — 

"  Dry  up  your  tears,  and  stick  your  rosemary 
On  this  fair  corse  ;  and,  as  the  custom  is. 
In  all  her  best  array  bear  her  to  church." 

Ancient  customs  survive  when  they  are  built  upon  the 
unaltering  parts  of  national  character,  and  have  con- 
nexion with  unalterable  local  circumstances.  Juliet 
was  carried  to  her  tomb  as  the  maids  and  the  matrons 
of  Italy  are  still  carried.  Rogers  has  most  accurately 
described  such  a  scene : — 

"  But  now  by  fits 
;^       A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assail'd  the  ear, 
A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet ; 
Anii  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  appear'd! 
Thronging,  they  came — as  from  the  shades  below ; 
All  of  a  ghostly  white!  '  Oh!  say,'  I  cried, 
'  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 
Do  spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?  What  are  these. 
That  seem  not  of  this  world,  and  mock  the  day; 
Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ?' 
*  It  is  an  ancient  brotherhood  thou  seest. 
Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  luie, 
Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man;  . 
The  living  mask'd,  the  dead  alone  uncover'd. 
But  mark' — And,  lying  on  her  funeral  couch. 
Like  one  asleep,  her  eyelids  closed,  her  hands 
Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast. 
As  'twere  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 
She  came  at  last — and  richly,  gaily  clad. 
As  for  a  birthday  feast!" 

^  Scene  II. — "  Sirrah,  go  hire  me  twenty  cunning 
cooks." 

The  "  cunning  cook,"  in  the  time  of  Shakspere, 
was,  as  he  is  at  present,  a  great  personage.  According 
to  an  entry  in  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company 
for  1560,  the  preacher  was  paid  six  shillings  and  two 
pence  for  his  labour ;  the  minstrel  twelve  shillings ; 
and  the  cook  fifteen  shillings.  The  relative  scale  of 
estimation  for  theology,  poetry,  and  gastronomy,  has 
not  been  much  altered  during  two  centuries,  either  in 
the  city  generally,  or  in  the  Company  which  repre- 

Traced[Es Vol.  I.  K 


sents  the  city's  literature.     Ben  Jonson  has  described 
a  master  cook  in  his  gorgeous  style  :  — 

"  A  master  cook !  why,  he  is  the  man  of  men 
For  a  professor ;  he  designs,  he  draws. 
He  paints,  he  carves,  he  builds,  he  fortifies. 
Makes  citadels  of  curious  fowl  and  fish. 
Some  he  dry-ditches,  some  motes  round  with  broths, 
Mounts  marrow-bones,  cuts  fifty  angled  custards. 
Rears  bulwark  pies ;  and,  for  his  outer  works, 
He  raiseth  ramparts  of  immortal  crust, 
And  teacheth  all  the  tactics  at  one  dinner — 
What  ranks,  what  files,  to  put  his  dishes  in. 
The  whole  art  military !    Then  he  knows 
The  influence  of  the  stars  upon  his  meats, 
And  all  their  seasons,  tempers,  qualities, 
And  so  to  fit  his  relishes  and  sauces. 
He  has  nature  in  a  pot,  'bove  all  the  chemists. 
Or  bare-breech'd  brethren  of  the  rosy  cross. 
He  is  an  architect,  an  engineer, 
A  soldier,  a  physician,  a  philosopher, 
A  general  mathematician." 

Old  Capulet,  in  his  exuberant  spirits  at  his  daugh- 
ter's approaching  marriage,  calls  for  "twenty"  of  these 
artists.  The  critics  think  this  too  large  a  number. 
Ritson  says,  with  wonderful  simplicity,  "  Either  Ca- 
pulet had  altered  his  mind  strangely,  or  our  author 
forgot  what  he  had  just  made  him  tell  us."  This  is, 
indeed,  to  understand  a  poet  with  admirable  exactness. 
The  passage  is  entirely  in  keeping  with  Shakspere's 
habit  of  hitting  off  a  character  almost  by  a  word. 
Capulet  is  evidently  a  man  of  ostentation ;  but  his 
ostentation,  as  is  most  generally  the  case,  is  covered 
with  a  thin  veil  of  affected  indifference.  In  the  first 
Act  he  says  to  his  guests, 

"  We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  toward." 
In  the  third  Act,  when  he  settles  the  day  of  Paris' 
marriage,  he  just  hints, — 

"  We  '11  keep  no  great  ado — a  friend  or  two.' 
But  Shakspere  knew  that  these  indications  of  the 
"  pride  which  apes  humility,"  were  not  inconsistent 
with  the  "  twenty  cooks," — the  regret  that 

"  We  shall  be  much  unfurnish'd  for  this  time." 
and  the  solicitude  expressed  in 

"  Look  to  the  bak'd  meats,  good  Angelica." 

Steevens  turns  up  his  nose  aristocratically  at  Shak- 
spere, for  imputing  "  to  an  Italian  nobleman  and  his 
lady,  all  the  petty  solicitudes  of  a  private  house,  con- 
cerning a  provincial  entertainment;"  and  he  adds, 
very  grandly,  "  To  such  a  bustle  our  author  might 
have  been  witness  at  home ;  but  the  like  anxieties 
could  not  wellhave  occurred  in  the  family  of  Capulet." 
Steevens  had  not  well  read  the  history  of  society, 
either  in  Italy  or  in  England,  to  have  fallen  into  the 
mistake  of  believing  that  the  great  were  exempt  from 
such  "  anxieties."  The  baron's  lady  overlooked  the 
baron's  kitchen  from  her  private  chamber ;  and  the 
still-room  and  the  spicery  not  unfrequently  occupied 
a  large  portion  of  her  attention. 

65 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 


^  Scene  III. — "As  in  a  vault." 

It  has  been  conjectured  that  the  charnel-house 
under  the  church  at  Stratford,  which  contains  a  vast 
collection  of  human  bones,  suggested  to  Shakspere 
this  description  of  "the  ancient  receptacle"  of  the 
Capulets. 

■*  Scene  IV. — "  Enter  servants,  with  spits,  logs, 
and  baskets," 

Vicellio  has  given  us  the  costume  of  the  menial 
servants,  and  porters  of  Italy,  which  we  here  copy. 


*  Scene  V. — '^Musicians'.   O,  musicians!" 

Juliet  is  held  to  be  dead.  Capulet's  joys  are  buried 
with  his  child.  The  musicians  that  came  to  accom- 
pany her  to  church  remain  in  the  hall.  The  scene 
which  follows  between  Peter  and  the  musicians  has 
generally  been  considered  ill-placed.  Even  Cole- 
ridge says,  "  As  the  audience  know  that  Juliet  is  not 
dead,  this  scene  is,  perhaps,  excusable."  Rightly 
understood,  it  appears  to  us  that  the  scene  requires 
no  apology.  It  was  the  custom  of  our  ancient  theati"e 
to  introduce,  in  the  irregular  pauses  of  a  play  that 
stood  in  the  place  of  a  division  into  Acts,  some  short 
diversion,  such  as  a  song,  a  dance,  or  the  extempore 


buffoonery  of  a  clown.  At  this  point  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  there  is  a  natural  pause  in  the  action,  and  at 
this  point  such  an  interlude  would,  probably,  have 
been  presented  whether  Shakspere  had  written  one 
or  not.  The  stage  direction  in  the  second  quarto 
puts  this  matter,  as  it  appears  to  us,  beyond  a  doubt. 
That  direction  says,  "  Enter  Will  Kempe,"  and  the 
dialogue  immediately  begins  between  Peter  and  the 
musicians.  Will  Kerape  was  the  Listen  of 'his  day; 
and  was  as  great  a  popular  favourite  as  Tarleton  had 
been  before  him.  It  was  wise,  therefore,  in  Shak- 
spere to  find  some  business  for  Will  Kempe,  that 
should  not  be  entirely  out  of  harmony  with  the  great 
business  of  his  play.  This  scene  of  the  musicians  is 
very  short,  and  regarded  as  a  necessary  part  of  the 
routine  of  the  ancient  stage,  is  excellently  managed. 
Nothing  can  be  more  naturally  exhibited  than  the 
indifference  of  hirelings,  without  attachment,  to  a 
family  scene  of  grief.  Peter  and  the  musicians  bandy 
jokes;  and,  although  the  musicians  think  Peter  a 
"  pestilent  knave,"  perhaps  for  his  inopportune  sal- 
lies, they  are  ready  enough  to  look  after  their  own 
gratification,  even  amidst  the  sorrow  which  they 
see  around  them.  A  wedding  or  a  burial  is  the  same 
to  them.  "  Come,  we  '11  in  here — tarry  for  the 
mourners,  and  stay  dinner."  So  Shakspere  read  the 
course  of  the  world — and  it  is  not  much  changed. 
The  quotation  beginning — 

"When  griping  grief  the  heart  doth  wound," 

is  from  a  short  poem  in  The  Paradise  of  Daintie 
Denises,  by  Richard  Edwards,  master  of  the  children 
of  the  chapel  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  This  was  set  as  a 
four-part  song,  by  Adrian  Batten,  organist  of  St.  Paul's 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  and  is  thus  printed,  but 
without  any  name,  in  Hawkins's  History  of  Music, 
vol.  v.  The  question  of  Peter,  "  Why  silver  sound, 
why  music  with  her  silver  sound?"  is  happily  enough 
explained  by  Percy :  "  This  ridicule  is  not  so  much 
levelled  at  the  song  itself  (which,  for  the  time  it  was 
written,  is  not  inelegant)  as  at  those  forced  and  un- 
natural explanations  often  given  by  us  painful  editors 
and  expositors  of  ancient  authors." — (Reliques,  vol.i.) 
Had  Shakspere  a  presentiment  of  what  he  was  to 
receive  at  the  hands  of  his  own  commentators  ? 


66 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— Mantua.'     A  Street. 
Enter  Romeo. 

Rom.  If  I  may  trust  the  flattering  truth*  of 

sleep, 
My  dreams  presage  some  joyful  news  at  hand  : 
My  bosom's  lord  sits  light  in  his  throne ; 
And,  all  this  day,  an  unaccustom'd  spirit 
Lifts   me   above   the    ground   with    cheerful 

thoughts. 
I  dreamt,  my  lady  came  and  found  me  dead ; 
(Strange  dream  !  that  gives  a  dead  man  leave 

to  think,) 
And  breath'd  such  life  with  kisses  in  my  lips, 
That  I  reviv'd,  and  was  an  emperor. 
Ah  me  !  how  sweet  is  love  itself  possess'd, 
When  but  love's  shadows  are  so  rich  in  joy ! 

Enter  Balthasar. 

News  from  Verona! — How  now,  Balthasar? 
Dost  thou  not  bring  me  letters  from  the  friar  ? 
How  doth  my  lady?     Is  my  father  well  ? 
How  doth  my  lady  •>  Juliet?  That  I  ask  again  ; 
For  nothing  can  be  ill,  if  she  be  well. 

Bal.  Then  she  is  well,  and  nothing  can  be  ill. 

»  (A),  eye.  This  word  has  been  retained  by  the  modern 
editors.  But  it  is  not  difficult  to  see  the  growth  of  that  philo- 
sophical spirit  in  Shakspere  which  suggested  the  substitution 
of  the  word  "  truth,"  which  opens  to  the  mind  a  deep  volume 
of  metaphysical  inquiry. 

*>  (A),  How  fares  my  Juliet? 


Her  body  sleeps  in  Capels'  monument, 
And  her  immortal  part  with  angels  lives. 
I  saw  her  laid  low  in  her  kindred's  vault, 
And  presently  took  post  to  tell  it  you  : 
O  pardon  me  for  bringing  these  ill  news, 
Since  you  did  leave  it  for  my  office,  sir. 

Rom.  Is  it  even  so?  then  I  defy  you,  stars ! — 
Thou  know'st  my  lodging:  get  me  ink  and 

paper. 
And  hire  post-horses  ;  I  will  hence  to-night. 

Bal.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  have  patience." 
Your  looks  are  pale  and  wild,  and  do  import 
Some  misadventure. 

Rom.  Tush,  thou  art  deceiv'd ; 

Leave  me,  and  do  the  thing  I  bid  thee  do : 
Hast  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar  ? 

Bal.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Rom.  No  matter :  get  thee  gone 

And    hire    those    horses;    I'll   be  with   thee 
straight.  \^Exit  Balthasar. 

Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night. 


°  The  first  quarto  has 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  1  will  not  leave  you  thus." 
But  then  all  the  remaining  dialogue  in  the  early  play  differs 
from  the  amended  text  of  the  author,  and  the  changes  shew 
his  accurate  judgment.    For  example : — 

"  Hast  thou  no  letters  to  me  from  the  friar  ?" 
that  most    important  repetition,  is  omitted  in  the  original 
play.     Are  we  not  to  trust  to  this  judgment?     Are  his  edi- 
tors  to   deal   with   his   corrections   according   to   their    own 
caprice  ? 

67 


Act  IV.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  II. 


Let's  see  for  means: — O,  mischief!  thou  art 

swift 
To  enter  in  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men ! 
I  do  remember  an  apothecary, — - 
And  hereabouts  he  dwells, — which  late  I  noted 
In  tatter'd  weeds,  with  overwhelming  brows. 
Culling  of  simples ;  meagre  were  his  looks. 
Sharp  misery  had  worn  him  to  the  bones : 
And  in  his  needy  shop  a  tortoise  hung, 
An  alligator  stuff'd,  and  other  skins 
Of  ill-shap'd  fishes ;  and  about  his  shelves 
A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes, 
Green  earthen  pots,  bladders,  and  musty  seeds, 
Remnants  of  packthread,  and  old  cakes  of  roses, 
Were  thinly  scatter'd  to  make  up  a  show. 
Noting  this  penury,  to  myself  I  said — 
An  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now, 
Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua,^ 
Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him. 
O,    this   same    thought   did  but  forerun  my 

need; 
And  this  same  needy  man  must  sell  it  me. 
As  I  remember,  this  should  be  the  house : 
Being  holiday,  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. — 
What,  ho  !  apothecary !  »■ 

Enter  Apothecary, 

Ap.  Who  calls  so  loud  ? 

Rom.  Come  hither,   man. — I  see  that  thou 
art  poor ; 
Hold,  there  is  forty  ducats  ;  let  me  have 
A  dram  of  poison  ;  such  soon-speeding  gear 
As  will  disperse  itself  through  all  the  veins, 
That  the  life-weary  taker  may  fall  dead  ; 
And  that  the  trunk  may  be  discharg'd  of  breath 
As  violently,  as  hasty  powder  fir'd 
Doth  hurry  from  the  fatal  cannon's  womb. 

Ap.  Such  mortal  drugs  I  have ;  but  Mantua's 
law 
Is  death  to  any  he  that  utters  them. 

Rom.  Art  thou  so  bare,  and  full  of  wretch- 
edness, 
And  fear'st  to  die?  famine  is  in  thy  cheeks, 

»  We  are  tempted  once  move  to  trespass  upon  our  limited 
space  by  giving, the  speech  descriptive  of  the  apothecary,  from 
the  first  edition.  The  studies  in  poetical  art,  which  Shak- 
spere's  ^corrections  of  himself  supply,  are  amongst  .the  most 
instructive  in  the  whole  compass  of  literature : — 
"  Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night. 

Let 's  see  for  means.     As  I  do  remember. 

Here  dwells  a  pothecary  whom  oft  I  noted 

As  1  pass'd  by,  whose  needy  shop  is  stuflfd 

With  beggarly  accounts  of  empty  boxes: 

And  in  the  same  an  alligator  hangs. 

Old  ends  of  packthread,  and  cakes  of  roses. 

Are  thinly  strewed  to  make  up  a  show.  ■ 

Him  as  I  noted,  thus  with  myself  1  thought: 

An  if  a  man  should  need  a  poison  now 

(Whose  present  sale  is  death  in  Mantua), 

Here  he  might  buy  it.     This  thought  of  mine 

Did  but  forerun  my  need:  and  hereabout  he  dwells. 

Being  holiday,  the  beggar's  shop  is  shut. 

What  ho!  apothecary!  come  forth  1  say." 
68 


Need  and  oppression  starveth  in  thy  eyes, 
Contempt  and  beggary  hang  upon  thy  back,* 
The  world  is  not  thy  friend,  nor  the  world's 

law; 
The  world  affords  no  law  to  make  thee  rich|'^' 
Then  be  not  poor,  but  break  it,  and  take  this.' 

Ap.  My  poverty,  but  not  my^will,  consents. 

Rom.  I  pray^  thy  poverty,  and  not  thy  will. 

Ap.  Put  this  in  any  liquid  thing  you  will, 
And  drink  it  off ;  and,  if  you  had  the  strength 
Of  twenty  men,  it  would  despatch  you  straight. 

Rom.  There  is  thy  gold;  worse  poison  to 
men's  souls, 
Doing  more  murther  in  this  loathsome  world, 
Than  these  poor  compounds  that  thou  may'st 

not  sell : 
I  sell  thee  poison,  thou  hast  sold  me  none. 
Farewell:  buy  food,  and  get  thyself  in  fiesh. — 
Come,  cordial,  and  not  poison  ;  go  with  me 
To  Juliet's  grave,  for  there  must  I  use  thee. 

\Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Friar  Laurence's  Cell. 

Enter  Friar  John. 

John.  Holy  Franciscan  friar  !  brother,  ho  ! 

Enter  Friar  Laurence. 

Lau.  This  same  should  be  the  voice  of  friar 
John, — 
Welcome  from  Mantua :  What  says  Romeo  ? 
Or,  if  his  mind  be  writ,  give  me  his  letter. 

John.  Going  to  find  a  barefoot  brother  out,* 
One  of  our  order,  to  associate  me. 
Here  in  this  city  visiting  the  sick. 
And  finding  him, — the  searchers  of  the  town, 
Suspecting  that  we  both  were  in  a  house 
Where  the  infectious  pestilence  did  reign, 
Seal'd  up  the  doors,  and  would  not  let  us  forth ; 
So  that  my  speed  to  Mantua  there  was  stay'd. 

Lau.  Who  bare  my  letter  then  to  Romeo  ? 

John.  I  could  not  send  it, — here  it  is  again, 
Nor  get  a  messenger  to  bring  it  thee ; 
So  fearful  were  they  of  infection. 

Lau.  Unhappy  fortune !  by  my  brotherhood, 
The  letter  was  not  nice,'=  but  full  of  charge 
Of  dear  import;  and  the  neglecting  it 
May  do  much  danger :  Friar  John,  go  hence ; 
Get  me  an  iron  crow,  and  bring  it  straight 
Unto  my  cell 

John.  Brother,  I  '11  go  and  bring  it  thee. 

[Exit. 

»  Steevens  again!   who  has  "recovered"   from  the  first 
quarto  the  line  in  our  common  texts, 

"  Upon  thy  back  hangs  ragged  misery." 
b  (A),  pay.  (C)  and  folio,  pray. 
'  Nice — trivial. 


Act  v.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[ScENF  m. 


Litu.  Now  must  I  to  tlie  monument  alone; 
Within  this  three  hours  will  fair  Juliet  wake. 
She  will  beshrew  me  much,  that  Romeo 
Hath  had  no  notice  of  these  accidents ; 
But  I  will  write  again  to  Mantua, 
And  keep  her  at  my  cell  till  Romeo  come. 
Poor  living  corse,  clos'd  in  a  dead  man's  tomb ! 

[^Exit. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Churchyard;  in  it,  a  Monu- 
ment helongimj  to  the  Capulets. 

Enter  Paris,  and  his  Page,   bearing  flowers 
and  a  torch. 

Par.  Give  me  thy  torch,  boy :  Hence,  and 
stand  aloof; — 
Yet  put  it  out,  for  I  would  not  be  seen. 
Under  yon  yew -trees"  lay  thee  all  along, 
Holding  thine  ear  close  to  the  hollow  ground ; 
So  shall  no  foot  upon  the  churchyard  tread 
(Beingloose,unfinu,  with  diggingupof  graves), 
But  thou  shalt  hear  it :  whistle  then  to  me. 
As  signal  that  thou  hear'st  something  approach. 
Give  me  those  flowers.     Do  as  I  bid  thee,  go. 

Page.  I  am  almost  afraid  to  stand  alone 
Here  in  the  churchyard ;  yet  I  will  adventure. 

\^Retires. 
Par.  Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  thy  bridal- 
bed  I  strew : 
O  woe,  thy  canopy  is  dust  and  stones, 
Which  with  sweet  water  nightly  I  will  dew, 
Or  Avanting  that,  with  tears  distill'd  by  moans; 
The  obsequies  that  I  for  thee  will  keep. 
Nightly  shall  be,  to  strew  thy  grave  and  weep.*" 
[TVte  Hoy  tvhistles. 
The  boy  gives  warning,  something  doth  ap- 
proach. 
What  cursed  foot  wanders  this  way  to-night. 
To  cross  my  obsequies,  and  true-love's  rite  ? 
What,  with  a  torch ! — muffle  me,  night,  awhile. 

[^Retires. 
Enter  Romeo  and  Balthasae  tviih  a  torch, 

mattock,  ^-c. 
Rom.  Give  me  that  mattock,  and  the  wrench- 
ing iron. 
Hold,  take  this  letter;  early  in  the  morning 
See  thou  deliver  it  to  my  lord  and  father. 

»  This  passage  is  different  in  (A) — but  an  "  Ew"  tree  is 
mentioned.  In  (C)  we  have  young-trees — perhaps  a  typogra- 
phical error ;  but  it  occurs  again. 

•<  The  six  lines  which  Paris  here  speaks  are  those  of  the 
quarto  of  1.599,  and  of  the  folio.     Pope  manufactured  a  pas- 
sage from  both  quarto  editions,  and  Steevens  and   Malone 
restored  that  of  the  elder  quarto.     The  first  copy  is  thus : — 
"Sweet  flower,  with  flowers  I  strew  thy  bridal  bed : 
Sweet  tomb,  that  in  thy  circuit  dost  contain 
The  perfect  model  of  eternity ; 
Fair  Juliet,  that  with  angels  dost  remain. 
Accept  this  latest  favour  at  my  hands  ; 
That  living  honour'd  thee,  and,  being  dead. 
With  funeral  praises  do  adorn  thy  tomb." 


Give  me  the  light;  Upon  thy  life  I  charge  thee, 

Whate'er  thou  hear'st  or  seest,  stand  all  aloof, 

And  do  not  interrupt  me  in  my  course. 

Why  I  descend  into  this  bed  of  death, 

Is,  partly,  to  behold  my  lady's  face : 

But,  chiefly,  to  take  thence  from  her  dead  finger 

A  precious  ring ;  a  ring,  that  I  must  use 

In    dear    employment:    therefore    hence,    be 

gone : — 
But  if  thou,  jealous,  dost  return  to  pry 
In  what  I  further  shall  intend  to  do, 
By  Heaven,  I  will  tear  thee  joint  by  joint. 
And  strew  this  hungry  churchyard  with  thy 

limbs : 
The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage-wild ; 
More  fierce,  and  more  inexorable  far, 
Than  empty  tigers,  or  the  roaring  sea. 

Bal.  I  will  be  gone,  sir,  and  not  trouble  you. 
Rom.  So  shalt  thou  shew  me  friendship. — 
Take  thou  that : 
Live  and  be  prosperous ;  and  farewell,  good 
fellow. 
Bal.  For  all  this  same,  I  '11  hide  me  here- 
about ; 
His  looks  I  fear,  and  his  intents  I  doubt. 

[^Retires. 
Rom.  Thou  detestable  maw,  thou  womb  of 
death, 
Gorg'd  with  the  dearest  morsel  of  the  earth, 
Thus  I  enforce  thy  rotten  jaws  to  open. 

[^Breaking  open  the  door  of  the  monument. 

And,  in  despite,  I'll  cram  thee  with  more  food ! 

Par.  This  is  that  banish'd  haughty  Montague, 

That  murther'd  my  love's  cousin; — with  which 

grief, 
It  is  supposed  the  fair  creature  died, — 
And  here  is  come  to  do  some  villainous  shame 
To  the  dead  bodies  :  I  will  apprehend  him. — 

\_Advances. 
Stop  thy  unhallow'd  toil,  vile  Montague. 
Can  vengeance  be  pursued  further  than  death? 
Condemned  villain,  I  do  apprehend  thee : 
Obey,  and  go  with  me ;  for  thou  must  die. 
Rom.  I  must,  indeed ;  and  therefore  came  I 
hither. 
Good  gentle  youth,  tempt  not  a  desperate  man, 
Fly  hence  and  leave  me ; — think  upon  these 

gone; 
Let  them  affright  thee. — I  beseech  thee,  youth, 
Put°  not  another  sin  upon  my  head, 
By  urging  me  to  fury:  — O,  be  gone  ! 
By  Heaven,  I  love  thee  better  than  myself; 
For  I  come  hither  arm'd  against  myself: 
Stay  not,  be  gone ; — live,  and  hereafter  say — 


»  {A),  Heap. 


69 


Act  v.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  III, 


A  madman's  mercy  bade  thee  run  away. 

Par.  I  do  defy  thy  commiseration,* 
And  apprehend  thee  for''  a  felon  here. 

Rom.  Wilt  thou  provoke  me  ?  then  have  at 
thee,  boy.  \They  fight. 

Page.  O  lord  !  they  fight :  I  will  go  call  the 
watch.  {Exit  Page. 

Par.  0,  I  am  slain !  [jPa/Zs.] — If  thou  be 
merciful. 
Open  the  tomb,  lay  me  with  Juliet.         \_Dies. 

Rom.  In  faith,  I  will : — Let  me  peruse  this 
face ; — 
Mercutio's  kinsman,  noble  county  Paris  : — 
What  said  my  man,  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode  ?  I  think. 
He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet : 
Said  he  not  so  ?  or  did  I  dream  it  so  ? 
Or  am  I  mad,  hearing  him  talk  of  Juliet, 
To  think  it  was  so  ? — O,  give  me  thy  hand, 
One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book ! 
I  '11  bury  thee  in  a  triumphant  grave, — 
A  grave  ?  0,  no ;  a  lantern,  slaughter'd  youth, 
For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  her  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light. 
Death,  lie  thou  there,  by  a  dead  man  interr'd. 
[Laying  Paris  in  the  monument. 
How  oft  when  men  are  at  the  point  of  death. 
Have  they  been  merry  ?  which  their  keepers 

call 
A  lightning  before  death :  O,  how  may  I 
Call  this  a  lightning? — O,  my  love!  my  wife! 
Death)   that  hath  suck'd  the  honey  of  thy 

breath, 
Hath  had  no  power  yet  upon  thy  beauty : 
Thou  art  not  conquer'd ;  beauty's  ensign  yet 
Is  crimson  in  thy  lips,  and  in  thy  cheeks. 
And  death's  pale  flag  is  not  advanced  there. — 
Tybalt,  liest  thou  there  in  thy  bloody  sheet? 
O,  what  more  favour  can  I  do  to  tliee. 
Than  with  that  hand  that  cut  thy  youth  in 

twain. 
To  sunder  his  that  was  thine  enemy? 
Forgive  me,  cousin ! — Ah,  dear  Juliet, 
Why  art  thou  yet  so  fair?  Shall  I  believe 
That  unsubstantial  death  is  amorous ; 
And  that  the  lean  abhorred  monster  keeps 
Thee  here  in  dark  to  be  his  paramour  ? 
For  fear  of  that,  I  still  will  stay  with  thee; 
And  never  from  this  palace  of  dim  night 
Depart  again ;  "^  here,  here  will  I  remain 
With  worms  that  are  thy  chamber-maids ;  O, 
here 


a  {A),  conjurations. 
•>  {A),  do  attack  thee  as. 

■^  The  following  lines  are  here  introduced  in  (C)  and  the 
70 


Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest ; 

And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars 

From   this  world-wearied  flesh.— Eyes,   look 

your  last ! 
Arms,  take  your  last  embrace  !  and  lips,  O  yon 
The  doors  of  breath,  seal  with  a  righteous  kiss 
A  dateless  bargain  to  engrossing  death ! — 
Come,  bitter  conduct,  come,  unsavoury  guide! 
Thou  desperate  pilot,  now  at  once  run  on 
The  dashing  rocks  thy  sea-sick  weary  bark ! 
Here  's  to  my  love  I — \_Drinks.'\  O,  true  apo- 
thecary ; 
Thy  drugs  ai*e  quick. — Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die. 

\_Dies. 

Enter  at  the  other  end  of  the  churchyard,  Friar 
Laurence  with  a  lantern,  crow,  and  spade. 

Fri.  Saint  Francis  be  my  speed  !  how  oft  to- 
night 
Have  my  old  feet  stumbled  at  graves? — Who  's 
there  ?  * 
Bal.  Here 's  one,    a  friend,  and  one  that 

knows  you  well. 
Fri.  Bliss  be  upon  you !  Tell  me,  good  my 
friend, 
What  torch  is  yond',  that  vainly  lends  his  light 
To  grubs  and  eyeless  skulls ;  as  I  discern, 
It  burneth  in  the  Capels'  monument. 

Bal.  It  doth  so,  holy  sir ;  and  there 's  my 
master 
One  that  you  love. 

Fri.  Who  is  it? 

Bal.  Romeo. 

Fri.  How  long  hath  he  been  there? 
Bal.  Full  half  an  hour. 

Fri.  Go  with  me  to  the  vault. 
Bal.  I  dare  not,  sir ; 

My  master  knows  not  but  I  am  gone  hence ; 
And  fearfuUy  did  menace  me  with  death, 
If  I  did  stay  to  look  on  his  intents. 

Fri.  Stay  then,  I'll  go  alone:  — Fear  comes 
upon  me ; 
O,  much  I  fear  some  ill  unlucky  thing. 


folio.  Malone  has  very  rationally  conjectured  that  they  are 
interpolations  of  a  compositor.  The  printer  had,  probably, 
some  imperfectly  erased  notes  of  the  poet  on  his  copy.  We 
give  them  as  we  find  them : 

"  Come,  lie  thou  in  my  arms ; 

Here  's  to  thy  health,  where'er  thou  tumblest  in. 

O  true  apothecary ; 

Thy  drugs  are  quick.     Thus  with  a  kiss  I  die. 

Depart  again. 
The  speech,  as  it  stands  in  oar  text,  occupies  forty-seven 
lines.     It  extended  only  to  twenty-three  lines  in  the  original 
copy. 

»  Steevens,  in  the  modern  text,  has  wrested  a  line  out  of 
the  first  quarto  : 

"Who  is  it  that  consorts,  so  late,  the  dead?" 


Act  v.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  111. 


Bal.  As  I  did  sleep  under  this  yew-tree* 
here, 
I  dreamt  my  master  and  another  fought, 
And  that  my  master  slew  him. 

Fri.  Romeo! — \^Advances. 

Alack,  alack,  what  blood  is  this,  which  stains 
The  stony  entrance  of  this  sepulchre? — 
What  mean  these  masterless  and  gory  swords 
To  lie  discolour'd  by  this  place  of  peace  ? 

[^Enters  the  monumdnt. 
Romeo !  O,  pale! — Who  else?  what,  Paris  too? 
And  steep'd  in  blood? — Ah,  what  an  unkind 

hour 
Is  guilty  of  this  lamentable  chance ! — 
The  lady  stirs.  [Juliet  wakes  and  stirs. 

Jul.  O,  comfortable  friar !  where  is  my  lord  ? 
I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be, 
And  there  I  am: — Where  is  my  Romeo  ? 

[Noise  within. 
Fri.  I  hear  some  noise. — Lady,  come  from 
that  nest 
Of  death,  contagion,  and  unnatural  sleep; 
A  greater  Power  than  we  can  contradict 
Hath  thwarted  our  intents;  come,  come,  away; 
Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  there  lies  dead ; 
And  Paris  too ;  come,  I  '11  dispose  of  thee 
Among  a  sisterhood  of  holy  nuns : 
Stay  not  to  question,  for  the  watch  is  coming;* 
Come,  go,  good  Juliet, — \_JVoise  again.\  I  dare 
no  longer  stay.  [Exit. 

Jul.  Go,   get  thee   hence,   for  I  will  not 
away. — 
What's  here?  a  cup,  clos'd  in  my  true  love's 

hand? 
Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end : — 
O  churl !  drink  all ;  and  left  no  friendly  drop, 
To  help  me  after? — I  will  kiss  thy  lips  ; 
Haply,  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them. 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative.  [Kisses  him. 
Thy  lips  are  warm ! 

I  Watch.  [Within.]  Lead,  boy:  —  Which 

way? 
Jul.  Yea,  noise  ? — then  I  '11  be  brief. — O 
happy  dagger! 

[Snatching  Romeo's  dagger. 
This  is  thy  sheath ;  [Stabs  herself.]  there  rust, 
and  let  me  die. 
[Falls  on  Romeo's  bod^,  and  dies. 

Enter  Watch,  with  the  Page  of  Paris. 

Page.  This  is  the  place;  there,  where  the 
torch  doth  burn. 


Again  young-lree  in  {C)  and  folio. 


1  Watch.  The  ground  is  bloody ;  Search  about 
the  churchyard: 
Go,  some  of  you,  whoe'er  you  find,  attach. 

[Exeunt  some. 
Pitiful  sight!  here  lies  the  county  slain ; — 
And  Juliet  bleeding  ;  Avarm,  and  newly  dead, 
Who  here  hath  lain  these  two  days  buried. 
Go,  tell  the  prince, — run  to  the  Capulets, — 
Raise  up  the  Montagues, — some  others  search ; — 
[Exeunt  other  Watchmen. 
We  see  the  ground  whereon  these  woes  do  lie ; 
But  the  true  ground  of  all  these  piteous  woes, 
We  cannot  without  circumstance  descry. 

Enter  some  of  the  Watch,  with  Balthasar. 

3  WatcJi.  Here 's  Romeo's  man,  we  found 

him  in  the  churchyard. 
1   Watch.  Hold  him  in  safety  till  the  prince 

come  hither. 

Enter  another  Watchman,  with  Friar  Laurence  . 

3  Watch.  Here  is  a  friar,  that  trembles,  sighs, 
and  weeps : 
We  took  this  mattock  and  this  spade  from  him, 
As  he  was  coming  from  this  churchyard  side. 
1  Watch.  A  great  suspicion ;  Stay  the  friar 
too. 

Enter  the  Prince  and  Attendants. 

Prince.  What  misadventure  is  so  early  up. 
That  calls  our  person  from  our  morning's  rest? 

Enter  Capulet,  Lady  Capulet,  and  others. 

Cap.  What  should  it  be,  that  they  so  shriek 

abroad  ? 
La.  Cap.  The  people  in  the  streets  cry — 
Romeo, 
Some — Juliet,  and  some — Paris  ;  and  all  run 
With  open  outcry,  toward  our  monument. 
Prince.  What  fear  is  this,  which  startles  in 

your  ears  ? 
1  Watch.  Sovereign,  here  lies  the   county 
Paris  slain; 
And  Romeo  dead ;  and  Juliet,  dead  before, 
Warm  and  new  kill'd. 

Prince.  Search,  seek,  and  know  how  this 

foul  murther  comes. 
1  Watch.  Here  is  a  friar,  and  slaughter'd 
Romeo's  man ; 
With  instruments  upon  them,  fit  to  open 
These  dead  men's  tombs. 

Cap.  O,  Heaven ! — O,  wife !  look  how  our 
daughter  bleeds  !- 
This  dagger  hath  raista'en, — for,  lo  !  his  house 

71 


Act  v.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


Is  empty  on  the  back  of  Montague," — 
And  is  mis-sheathed  in  my  daughter's  bosom. 
La,  Cap.  O  me  !  this  sight  of  death  is  as  a 
bell, 
That  warns  my  old  age  to  a  sepulchre. 
-l!r« 

Enter  Montague  and  others. 

Prince.  Come,  Montague  ;  for  thou  art  early 
up, 
To  see  thy  son  and  heir  now  early  down. 
Mon.  Alas,  my  liege,  my  wife  is  dead  to- 
night; 
Grief  of  my  son's  exile  hath  stopp'd  her  breath : 
What  further  woe  conspires  against  my  age  ? 
Prince.  Look,  and  thou  shalt  see. 
Mon.  O  thou  untaught !  what  manners  is  in 
this, 
To  press  before  thy  father  to  a  grave? 

Prince.  Seal  up  the  mouth  of  outrage  for  a 
while. 
Till  we  can  clear  these  ambiguities. 
And  know  their  spring,  then-  head,  their  true 

descent ; 
And  then  will  I  be  general  of  your  woes. 
And  lead  you  even  to  death :  Meantime,  for- 
bear. 
And  let  mischance  be  slave  to  patience. — 
Bring  forth  the  parties  of  suspicion. 

Fri.  I  am  the  greatest,  able  to  do  least, 
Yet  most  suspected,  as  the  time  and  place 
Doth  make  against  me,  of  this  direful  murther ; 
And  here  I  stand,  both  to  impeach  and  purge 
Myself  condemned  and  myself  excus'd. 

Prince.  Then  say  at  once  what  thou  dost 

know  in  this. 
Fri.  I  will  be  brief,  for  my  short  date  of 
breath 
Is  not  so  long  as  is  a  tedious  tale. 
Romeo,  there  dead,  was  husband  to  that  Juliet, 
And  she,  there  dead,  that  Romeo's  faithful  wife  : 
I  married  them ;  and  their  stolen  marriage-day 
Was  Tybalt's  dooms-day,  whose  untimely  death 
Banish'd  the  new-made  bridegroom  from  this 

city; 
For  whom,  and  not  for  Tybalt,  Juliet  pin'd. 
You,  to  remove  the  siege  of  grief  from  her, 
Betroth'd  and  would  have  married  her  perforce 
To  county  Paris : — Then  comes  she  to  me ; 
And,  with  wild  looks,  bid  me   devise  some 

means 
To  rid  her  from  this  second  marriage. 
Or,  in  my  cell  there  would  she  kill  herself. 
Then  gave  I  her,  so  tutor'd  by  my  art, 
A  sleeping  potion ;  which  so  took  effect 

*  The  dagger  was  worn  at  the  back. 

72 


[Scene  III. 


As  I  intended,  for  it  wrought  on  her 

The    form    of    death :    meantime    I    writ  to 

Romeo, 
That  lie  should  hither  come  as  this  dire  night. 
To  help  to  take  her  from  her  borrow'd  grave, 
Being  the  time  the  potion's  force  should  cease. 
But  he  which  bore  my  letter,  friar  John, 
Was  stay'd  by  accident ;  and  yesternight 
Return'd  my  letter  back :  Then  all  alone,     ,  j  r 
At  the  prefixed  hour  of  her  waking,  ,-) 

Came  I  to  take  her  from  her  kindred's  vault ; 
Meaning  to  keep  her  closely  at  my  cell, 
Till  I  conveniently  could  send  to  Romeo : 
But  when  I  came  (some  minute  ere  the  time 
Of  her  awaking),  here  untimely  lay 
The  noble  Paris,  and  true  Romeo,  dead. 
She  wakes  ;  and  I  entreated  her  come  forth. 
And  bear  this  work  of  heaven  with  patience  : 
But  then  a  noise  did  scare  me  from  the  tomb ; 
And  she,  too  desperate,  would  not  go  with  me. 
But  (as  it  seems)  did  violence  on  herself. 
All  this  I  know ;  and  to  the  marriage 
Her  nurse  is  privy :  And,  if  aught  in  this 
Miscarried  by  my  fault,  let  my  old  hfe 
Be  sacrific'd,  some  hour  before  the  time. 
Unto  the  rigour  of  severest  law. 
Prince.  We  stiU  have  known  thee  for  a  holy 

man. — 
Where  's  Romeo's  man  ?  what  can  he  say  to 

this? 
Bal.  I  brought  my  master  news  of  Juliet's 

death ; 
And  then  in  post  he  came  from  Mantua, 
To  this  same  place,  to  this  same  monument. 
This  letter  he  early  bid  me  give  his  father ; 
And  threaten'd  me  with  death,  going  in  the 

vault. 
If  I  departed  not,  and  left  him  there. 

Prince.  Give  me  the  letter,  I  will  look  on 

it.— 
Where  is  the  county's  page,  that  rais'd  the 

Avatch  ? — 
Sirrah,  what  made  your  master  in  this  place? 
Page.  He  came  with  flowers  to  strew  his 

lady's  grave ; 
And  bid  me  stand  aloof,  and  so  I  did : 
Anon,  comes  one  with  light  to  ope  the  tomb; 
And,  by  and  by,  my  master  drew  on  him : 
And  then  I  ran  away  to  call  the  watch. 

Prince.  This  letter  doth  make  good  the  friar's 

words, 
Their  course  of  love,  the  tidings  of  her  death ; 
And  here  he  writes — that  he  did  buy  a  poison 
Of  a  poor  'pothecary,  and  therewithal 
Came  to  this  vault  to  die,  and  lie  with  Juliet. 


Act  v.] 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


[Scene  111. 


Where  be   these  enemies?     Capulet!     Mon- 

taorue  !— 
See,  what  a  scourge  is  laid  upon  your  hate, 
That  Heaven  finds  means  to  kill  youi- joys  with 

love ! 
And  I,  for  winking  at  your  discords  too, 
Have  lost  a  brace  of  kinsmen : — all  are  punish'd. 
Caj).  O,   brother   Montague,  give  me  thy 

hand. 
This  is  my  daughter's  jointure,  for  no  more 
Can  I  demand. 

Mon.  But  I  can  give  thee  more  : 

For  I  will  raise  her  statue  in  pure  gold ; 


That  whiles  Verona  by  that  name  is  known, 
There  shall  no  figure  at  that  rate  be  set, 
As  that  of  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 

Cap.  As  rich  shall  Romeo  by  liis  lady  lie ; 
Poor  sacrifices  of  our  enmity ! 

Prince.  A  glooming  peace  this  morning  with 
it  brings ; 
The  sun  for  sorrow  will  not  shew  his  head : 
Go  hence,  to  have  more  talk  of  these  sad  things ; 
Some  shall  be  pardon'd,   and  some  pu- 
nished : " 
For  never  was  a  story  of  more  woe 
Than  this  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo.     [^Exeunt. 


'I'RACEDIES.      Vol.    1. 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  V. 


'  Scene  I. — "  Mantua." 

To  the  poetical  traveller  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say  whether  Mantua  would  excite  the  greater  interest 
as  the  birthplace  of  Virgil  or  as  the  scene  of  Romeo's 
exile.  Surely,  an  Englishman  cannot  walk  through 
the  streets  of  that  city  without  thinking  of  the 
apothecary  in  whose 

" needy  shop  a  tortoise  hung. 

An  alligator  stuflTd,  and  other  skins 

Of  ill-shap'd  fishes ;  and  about  his  shelves 

A  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes." 

Any  description  of  the  historical  events  connected 
with  Mantua,  or  any  account  of  its  architectural  mo- 
numents, would  be  here  out  of  place. 

2  Scene  I. — "  Ido  remember  an  apothecary." 

The  criticism  of  the  French  school  has  not  spared 
this  famous  passage.  Joseph  Warton,  an  elegant 
scholar,  but  who  belonged  to  this  school,  has  the 
following  observations  in  his  Virgil  (1763,  vol.  i. 
page  301):— 

"  It  may  not  be  improper  to  produce  the  following 
glaring  instance  of  the  absurdity  of  introducing  long 
and  minute  descriptions  into  tragedy.  When  Romeo 
receives  the  dreadful  and  unexpected  news  of  Juliet's 
death,  this  fond  husband,  in  an  agony  of  grief,  im- 
mediately resolves  to  poison  himself.  But  his  sorrow 
is  interrupted,  while  he  gives  us  an  exact  picture  of 
the  apothecary's  shop,  from  whom  he  intended  to 
purchase  the  poison: — 

'  I  do  remember  an  apothecary,'  &c. 

"  I  appeal  to  those  who  know  anything  of  the  human 
heart,  whether  Romeo,  in  this  distressful  situation, 
could  have  leisure  to  think  of  the  alligator,  empty 
boxes,  and  bladders,  and  other  furniture  of  this  beg- 
garly shop,  and  to  point  them  out  so  distinctly  to  the 
audience.  The  description  is,  indeed,  very  lively 
and  natural,  but  very  improperly  put  into  the  mouth 
of  a  person  agitated  with  such  passion  as  Romeo  is 
represented  to  be." 

The  criticism  of  Warton,  ingenious  as  it  may  ap- 
pear, and  true  as  applied  to  many  "  long  and  minute 
descriptions  in  tragedy,"  is  here  based  upon  a  wrong 
principle.  He  says  that  Romeo,  in  his  distressful 
situation,  had  not  "leisure"  to  think  of  the  furniture 
of  the  apothecary's  shop.  What  then  had  he  leisure 
to  do?  Had  he  leisure  to  run  oflF  into  declamations 
against  fate,  and  into  tedious  apostrophes  and  gene- 
ralizations, as  a  less  skilful  artist  than  Shakspere 
would  have  made  him  indulge  in?  From  the  moment 
he  had  said, 

"  Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night, 

Let 's  see  for  means," 

the  apothecary's  shop  became  to  him  the  object  of  the 
74 


most  intense  interest.  Great  passions,  when  they 
have  shaped  themselves  into  firm  resolves,  attach  the 
most  distinct  importance  to  the  minutest  objects  con- 
nected with  the  execution  of  their  purpose.  He  had 
seen  the  apothecary's  shop  in  his  placid  moments  as 
an  object  of  common  curiosity.  He  had  hastily 
looked  at  the  tortoise  and  the  alligator,  the  empty 
boxes,  and  the  earthen  pots ;  and  he  had  looked  at 
the  tattered  weeds  and  the  overwhelming  brows  of 
their  needy  owner.  But  he  had  also  said,  when  he 
first  saw  these  things, 

"  An  if  a  man  did  need  a  poison  now. 
Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua, 
Here  lives  a  caitiff  wretch  would  sell  it  him." 

When  he  did  need  a  poison,  all  these  documents  of 
the  misery  that  was  to  serve  him  came  with  a  double 
intensity  upon  his  vision.  The  shaping  of  these 
things  into  words  was  not  for  the  audience.  It  was 
not  to  produce  "  a  long  and  minute  description  in 
tragedy "  that  had  no  foundation  in  the  workings  of 
nature.  It  was  the  very  cunning  of  nature  which 
produced  this  description.  Mischief  was,  indeed, 
swift  to  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  the  desperate  man ; 
but  the  mind  once  made  up,  it  took  a  perverse  plea- 
sure in  going  over  every  item  of  the  circumstances 
that  had  suggested  the  means  of  mischief.  All  other 
thoughts  had  passed  out  of  Romeo's  mind.  He  had 
nothing  left  but  to  die ;  and  everything  connected 
with  the  means  of  his  death  was  seized  upon  by  his 
imagination  with  an  energy  that  could  only  find  re- 
lief in  words. 

Shakspere  has  exhibited  the  same  knowledge  of 
nature  in  his  sad  and  solemn  poem  of  "  The  Rape  of 
Lucrece,"  where  the  injured  wife,  having  resolved  to 
wipe  out  her  stain  by  death, 

" calls  to  mind  where  hangs  a  piece 

Of  skilful  painting,  made  for  Priam's  Troy." 

She  sees  in  that  painting  some  fancied  resemblance 
to  her  own  position,  and  spends  the  heavy  hours  till 
her  husband  arrives  in  its  contemplation. 

"  So  Lucrece  set  a-work,  sad  tales  doth  tell 
To  pencill'd  pensiveness  and  colour'd  sorrow; 
She  lends  them  words,  and  she  their  looks  doth  borrow." 

It  was  the  intense  interest  in  his  own  resolve 
which  made  Romeo  so  minutely  describe  his  apothe- 
cary. But  that  stage  past,  came  the  abstraction  of 
his  sorrow:  — 

"What  said  my  man,  when  my  betossed  soul 
Did  not  attend  him  as  we  rode  ?    I  think 
He  told  me  Paris  should  have  married  Juliet." 

Juliet  was  dead;  and  what  mattered  it  to  his  "be- 
tossed soul"  whom  she  should  have  married? 
"  Well,  Juliet,  I  will  lie  with  thee  to-night," 
was  the  sole  thought  that  made  him  remember  an 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 


"  apothecary,"  and  treat  what  his  servant  said  as  a 
"dream."  Who  but  Shakspere  could  have  given  us 
the  key  to  these  subtle  and  delicate  workings  of  the 
human  heart  ? 

'Scene  I. — "  Whose  sale  is  present  death  in  Mantua" 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  in  his  "Discourse  of  Te- 
nures," says,  "  By  the  laws  of  Spain  and  Portugal  it 
is  not  lawful  to  sell  poison."  A  similar  law,  if  we 
are  rightly  informed,  prevailed  in  Italy.  There  is  no 
such  law  in  our  own  statute  book  ;  and  the  circum- 
stance is  a  remarkable  exemplification  of  the  dif- 
ference between  English  and  continental  manners. 

*  Scene  II. — "  Goinff  to  Jind  a  barefoot  brother  out." 

In  the  old  poem  of  Romeus  and  Juliet  we  have  the 
following  lines : — 

"  Apace  our  friar  John  to  Mantua  hies ; 
And,  for  because  in  Italy  it  is  a  wonted  guise, 
That  friars  in  the  town  should  seldom  walk  alone, 
But  of  their  convent  aye  should  be  accompanied  with  one 
Of  his  profession." 

Friar  Laurence  and  his  associates  must  be  supposed 
to  belong  to  the  Franciscan  order  of  friars.  The  good 
friar  of  the  play,  in  his  kindliness,  his  learning,  and 
his  inclination  to  mix  with,  and  'perhaps  control,  the 
affairs  of  the  world,  is  no  unapt  representative  of  one 
of  this  distinguished  order  in  their  best  days.  War- 
ton,  in  his  History  of  English  Poetry,  has  described 
the  learning,  the  magnificence,  and  the  prodigious 


influence  of  this  remarkable  body.  Friar  Laurence 
was  able  to  give  to  Romeo, 

"  Adversity's  sweet  milk — philosophy." 
He  was  to  Romeo, 

"  a  divine,  a  ghostly  confessor, 
A  sin-absolver,  and  my  friend  profess'd ;" 

but  he  was  yet  of  the  world.  He  married  Romeo  and 
his  mistress,  partly  to  gratify  their  love,  and  partly  to 
secure  his  influence  in  the  reconciliation  of  their 
families.  Warton  says  the  Franciscans  "  managed 
the  machines  of  every  important  operation,  or  event, 
both  in  the  religious  and  political  world." 

^  Scene  III. — "  The  watch  is  coming." 
Malone  maintains,  here  and  elsewhere,  that  there 
is  no  such  establishment  as  the  watch  in  Italy.  Mr. 
Charles  Armitage  Brown,  who  to  an  intimate  know- 
ledge of  Shakspere  in  general,  adds  a  particular 
knowledge  of  Italian  customs,  says,  "  If  Dogberry 
and  Verges  should  be  pronounced  nothing  else  than 
the  constables  of  the  night  in  London,  before  the  new 
police  was  established,  I  can  assert  that  I  have  seen 
those  very  officers  in  Italy." 

^  Scene  III. — "  Some  shall  be  pardon' d,"  &c. 
The  government  of  the  Scaligers,  or  Scalas,  com- 
menced in  1259,  when  Mastino  de  la  Scala  was 
elected  Podesta  of  Verona;  and  it  lasted  113  years 
in  the  legitimate  descendants  of  the  first  Podesta. 
The  following  is  a  representation  of  the  tomb  of  this 
illustrious  family  at  Verona,  from  an  original  sketch. 


75 


SUPPLEMENTARY    NOTICE. 


"  Of  the  truth  of  Juliet's  story,  they  (the  Veronese)  seem  tenacious  to  a  degree,  insisting  on 
the  fact — giving  a  date  (1303),  and  shewing  a  tomb.  It  is  a  plain,  open,  and  partly  decayed 
sarcophagus,  with  withered  leaves  in  it,  in  a  wild  and  desolate  conventual  garden,  once  a  ceme- 
tery, now  ruined  to  the  very  graves.  The  situation  struck  me  as  very  appropriate  to  the  legend, 
being  blighted  as  their  love."  Byron  thus  described  the  tomb  of  Juliet  to  his  friend  Moore,  as 
he  saw  it  at  the  close  of  autumn,  when  withered  leaves  had  dropped  into  the  decayed  sarcopha- 
gus, and  the  vines  that  are  trailed  above  it  had  been  stripped  of  their  fruit.  His  letter  to  Moore, 
in  which  this  passage  occurs,  is  dated  the  7th  November.*  But  this  wild  and  desolate  garden 
only  struck  Byron  as  appropriate  to  tlie  legend — to  that  simple  tale  of  fierce  hatreds  and  fatal 
loves  which  tradition  has  still  preserved,  amongst  those  who  may  never  have  read  Luigi  da  Porto 
or  Bandello,  and  who,  perhaps,  never  heard  the  name  of  Shakspere.  To  the  legend  only  is  the 
blighted  place  appropriate.  For  who  that  has  ever  been  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  story  of 
Juliet,  as  told  by  Shakspere, — who  that  has  heard  his  "glorious  song  of  praise  on  that  inexpres- 
sible feeling  which  ennobles  the  soul  and  gives  to  it  its  highest  sublimity,  and  which  elevates 
even  the  senses  themselves  into  soul;" f — Avho  that,  in  our  great  poet's  matchless  delineation  of 
Juliet's  love,  has  perceived  "  whatever  is  most  intoxicating  in  the  odour  of  a  southern  spring, 
languishing  in  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  or  voluptuous  on  the  first  opening  of  the  rose,"  J — 
who,  indeed,  that  looks  upon  the  tomb  of  the  Juliet  of  Shakspere,  can  see  only  a  shapeless  ruin 
amidst  wildness  and  desolation  ? 

" A  grave?     O,  no ;  a  lantern, 


For  here  lies  Juliet,  and  lier  beauty  makes 
This  vault  a  feasting  presence  full  of  light." 


Wordsworth  has  a  philosophical  remark  upon  Shakspere  which  is  applicable  to  all  his  tragedies : 
— "  Shakspere's  writings,  in  the  most  pathetic  scenes,  never  act  upon  us  as  pathetic  beyond  the 
bounds  of  pleasure."  Wordsworth  adds,  that  this  effect,  "  in  a  much  greater  degree  than 
might  at  first  be  imagined,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  small,  but  continual  and  regular  impulses  of 


*  Moore's  Life  of  Byron,  8vo.  1838,  p.  327. 

76 


t  A.  W.  Schlegel's  Lectures,  Black's  translation,  vol.  ii.  p.  187.        t  Ibid 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical  arrangement."*  In  Romeo  and  Juliet  the  principle  of 
limiting  the  pathetic  according  to  the  degree  in  which  it  is  calculated  to  produce  emotions  of 
pleasure,  is  interwoven  with  the  whole  structure  and  conduct  of  the  play.  The  tragical  part  of 
the  story,  from  the  hrst  scene  to  the  last,  is  held  in  subjection  to  tlie  beautiful.  It  is  not  only 
that  the  beautiful  comes  to  the  relief  of  the  tragic,  as  in  Lear  and  Othello,  but  here  the  tragic  is 
only  a  mode  of  exhibiting  the  beautiful  under  its  most  striking  aspects.  Shakspere  never  intended 
that  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  should  lacerate  the  heart.  When  JVIrs.  Inchbald,  therefore, 
said,  in  her  preface  to  the  acted  play,  "  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  called  a  pathetic  tragedy,  but  it  is 
not  so  in  reality — it  charms  the  understanding  and  delights  the  imagination,  without  melting, 
though  it  touches,  the  heart," — she  paid  the  highest  compliment  to  Shakspere's  skill  as  an  artist, 
for  he  had  thoroughly  worked  out  his  own  idea.  "  Otway,"  Mrs.  Inchbald  adds,  "  would  have 
rendered  it  more  effective."  Yes,  indeed,  Otway  would  have  given  us  Juliet  stark  mad  in  her 
grave-clothes,  or  would  have  made  her  in  reality, 

"  Pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud." 

Unquestionably  he  would  have  done  what  Garrick's  less  skilful  hand  ventured  to  do — to  make 
Juliet  wake  before  Romeo  dies ;  and  then  Otway  would  have  been  called  a  greater  master  of  the 
pathetic  than  Shakspere.  It  is  marvellous  how  acute  and  ingenious  men,  such  as  Thomas  Warton, 
for  example,  should  be  betrayed  into  criticism  which  deals  with  such  a  poem  as  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  as  if  there  were  no  unity  of  feeling,  no  homogeneousness,  in  its  entire  construction. 
Warton  says,  "  Shakspere,  misled  by  the  English  poem,  missed  the  opportunity  of  introducing  a 
most  affecting  scene  by  the  natural  and  obvious  conclusion  of  the  story.  In  Luigi's  novel,  Juliet 
awakes  from  her  trance  in  the  tomb  before  the  death  of  Romeo. "f  Shakspere  misled !  Shakspere 
missing  the  opportunity !  Shakspere  working  in  the  dark  !  Let  us  see  what  has  been  done  by 
those  who  were  not  "  misled,"  and  who  seized  upon  "the  opportunity."  Garrick  has  written 
sixty  lines  of  good,  orthodox,  common-place  dialogue  bet^veen  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  the  tomb,  in 
which  Romeo,  before  he  begins  to  rave,  talks  very  much  in  the  style  of  one  of  Shenstone's  shep- 
herds,— as,  for  example, — 

'  "  And  all  my  mind  was  happiness  and  thee." 

Garrick,  moreover,  has  omitted  all  such  Shaksperean  images  as  would  be  offensive  to  superfine 
ears,  such  as — 

.1-    ^l„„i/r   .  •.       .         ^     ,    '.' here,  here  will  I  remain 

SB  .aioolfl.  .bn&nt  Sill  01  J;.ilul,„..,  .u  .      .,,     u     u         j  .. 

I  _.  With  worms  that  are  thy  chamber-maids. 

And  yet,  with  all  his  efforts  to  destroy  the  beautiful,  and  all  his  managerial  skill  to  thrust  forward 
that  species  of  pathetic  which  the  author  delights  in,  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  himself,  and 
bringing  down  the  galleries,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  according  to  Mrs.  Inchbald,  "  seldom  attracts  an 
elegant  audience.  The  company  that  frequent  the  side-boxes  will  not  come  to  a  tragedy,  unless 
to  weep  in  torrents ;  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  will  not  draw  even  a  copious  shower  of  tears." 
Why  no  !  The  vulgar  pathos  that  Garrick  has  daubed  over  Shakspere's  catastrophe,  with  th^  , 
same  skill  with  which  a  picture  dealer  would  mend  a  Correggio,  only  serves  to  make  the  beauty, , 
that  he  has  been  constrained  to  leave  untouched,  more  unintelligible  to  "  the  company  that 
frequent  the  aide-boxes."  The  whole  thing  has  become  out  of  keeping.  Instead  of  the  sweetness 
that  "ends  with  a  long  deep  sigh,  like  the  breeze  of  the  evening,"!  we  have  a  rant  about 
"  cruel,  cursed  fate,"  which  shrieks  like  the  gusty  wind  in  the  chinks  of  a  deserted  and, 
poverty-stricken  hut.  Instead  of  that  beautiful  close  in  which  "  the  spring  and  the  winter 
meet;  winter  assumes  the  character  of  spring,  and  spring  the  sadness  of  winter,"||  we  have 
here  a  fierce  storm; — "such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thunder," — which  produces 
the  effect  of  mere  physical  terror.  Instead  of  "  the  flower  that  is  softly  shed  on  the  earth,  yet 
puttmg  forth  undying  odours,"  ^  we  have  the  rank  and  loathsome  weeds  of  the  charnel-house. 
It  is  some  praise  to  our  age  that  any  new  attempts  to  "  improve"  Shakspere  would  not  be  tolerated. 
It  is  a  higher  praise  that  the  endeavour  to  revive  upon  the  stage  what  the  greatest  master  of  the 

,  *  Observations  prefixed  to  the  second  edition  of  Lyrical  Ballads. 

t  History  of  English  Poetry,  vol.  iv.  p.  301  (1824).  t  Coleridge,  Drake's  Memorials. 

U  Coleridge,  Literary  Remain«.  §   Retrospective  Review. 

Tragedies.     Vol.  I.  M  ny 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

dramatic  art  really  wrote,  has,  in  some  few  instances,  received  adequate  encouragement.  But 
we  have  yet  a  great  deal  to  learn,  and  a  great  deal  to  unlearn,  before  the  principle  upon  which 
Romeo  and  Juliet  was  written  would  be  thoroughly  appreciated  by  an  audience.  With  the  mil- 
lions that  read  Shakspere  throughout  the  civilized  world  there  is  no  difficulty. 

Coleridge  has  described  the  homogeneousness — the  totality  of  interest— which  is  the  great 
characteristic  of  this  play,  by  one  of  those  beautiful  analogies  which  could  only  proceed  from 
the  pen  of  a  true  poet : — 

"Whence  arises  the  harmony  that  strikes  us  in  the  wildest  natural  landscapes, — in  the  relative 
shapes  of  rocks,  the  harmony  of  colours  in  the  heaths,  ferns,  and  lichens,  the  leaves  of  the  beech 
and  the  oak,  the  stems  and  rich  brown  branches  of  the  birch  and  other  mountain  trees,  varying 
from  verging  autumn  to  returning  spring, — compared  with  the  visual  effect  from  the  greater 
number  of  artificial  plantations? — From  this,  that  the  natural  landscape  is  effected,  as  it  were, 
by  a  single  energy  modified  ab  intra  in  each  component  part.  And  as  this  is  the  particular 
excellence  of  the  Shaksperean  di-ama  generally,  so  is  it  especially  characteristic  of  the  Romeo 
and  Juliet."* 

Schlegel  carried  out  the  proofs  of  this  assertion  in  an  Essay  on  Romeo  and  Juliet;!  in  which, 
to  use  his  own  words,  he  "went  through  the  whole  of  the  scenes  in  then*  order,  and  demonstrated 
the  inward  necessity  of  each  Avith  reference  to  the  whole  :  shewed  why  such  a  particular  circle 
of  characters  and  relations  was  placed  around  the  two  lovers ;  explained  the  signification  of 
the  mirth  here  and  there  scattered  ;  and  justified  the  use  of  the  occasional  heightening  given  to 
the  poetical  colours.''^  Schlegel  wisely  did  this  to  exhibit  what  is  more  remarkable  in  Shakspere 
than  in  any  other  poet,  "the  thorough  formation  of  a  work,  even  in  its  minutest  part,  according 
to  a  leading  idea — the  dominion  of  the  animating  spirit  over  all  the  means  of  execution."  || 
The  general  criticism  of  Schlegel  upon  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  based  upon  a  perfect  comprehension  of 
this  great  principle  upon  which  Shakspere  worked.  Schlegel,  we  apprehend,  succeeded  Coleridge 
in  giving  a  genial  tone  to  criticism  upon  Shakspere — for  Coleridge  first  lectured  on  the  drama  in 
1802,  and  Schlegel  in  1808 ;  and  Schlegel  may  also  have  owed  something  indirectly  to  Coleridge, — 
to  that  master-mind  who  filled  other  minds  as  if  they  were  conduits  from  his  exhaustless  fountain. 
But  he  in  himself  is  a  most  acute  and  profound  critic  ;  and  what  he  has  done  to  make  Shakspere 
properly  known,  even  in  this  country,  where  our  perception  of  his  greatness  had  long  been 
obscured  amidst  the  deep  gloom  of  the  critical  fog  that  had  hung  over  us  for  more  than  a  century, 
ought  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  following  is  the  close  of  a  celebrated  passage  from  Schlegel, 
upon  Romeo  and  Juliet,  which  has  often  been  quoted ; — but  it  is  altogether  so  true  and  so 
beautiful,  that  we  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  circulating  it  stdl  more  widely  : — 

"  Whatever  is  most  intoxicating  in  the  odour  of  a  southern  spring,  languishing  in  the  song  of 
the  nightingale,  or  voluptuous  on  the  first  opening  of  the  rose,  is  breathed  into  this  poem.  But 
even  more  rapidly  than  the  earliest  blossoms  of  youth  and  beauty  decay,  it  hun-ies  on  from  the 
first  timidly -bold  declaration  of  love  and  modest  return,  to  the  most  unlimited  passion,  to  an 
irrevocable  union ;  then,  amidst  alternating  storms  of  rapture  and  despair,  to  the  death  of  the 
two  lovers,  who  still  appear  enviable  as  their  love  survives  them,  and  as  by  their  death  they 
have  obtained  a  triumph  over  every  separatuig  power.  The  sweetest  and  the  bitterest,  love  and 
hatred,  festivity  and  dark  forebodings,  tender  embraces  and  sepulchres,  the  fulness  of  life  and 
self-annihilation,  are  all  here  brought  close  to  each  other ;  and  all  these  contrasts  are  so  blended 
in  the  harmonious  and  wonderful  work  into  a  unity  of  impression,  that  the  echo  which  the  whole 
leaves  behind  in  the  mind  resembles  a  single  but  endless  sigh."§ 

In  selecting  these  passages  to  establish  in  the  minds  ofour  readers  the  great  principle  of  the  unity 
of  feeling  which  so  thoroughly  pervades  the  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  which  constitutes  the  "parti- 
cular excellence  of  the  Shaksperean  drama,"  we  have  indirectly  furnished  the  proof  of  the  assertion 
with  which  we  set  out,  that  the  tragical  part  of  the  story,  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  is  held 
in  subjection  to  the  beautiful.  The  structure  of  the  play  essentially  required  this. — Coleridge  has 
said,  tliat  "  Shakspere  meant  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  approach  to  a  poem;"  but,  of  course,  Cole- 
ridge meant  a  poem  entirely  modified  by  the  dramatic  power.  We  shall  venture  to  trespass  upon  the 

*  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.p.  150.  t  Charakteristiken  und  Kritikcn.  {  Leetures,  vol.  ii.  p.  127. 

Il  Lectures,  vol.  ii.  p.  163.  ^  Lectures,  vol.  ii.  p.  liHi. 

78 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

attention  of  our  readers,  whilst  we  examine  the  conduct  of  the  story  and  the  development  of  the 
characters  under  this  aspect.  When  we  have  arrived  at  a  due  conception  of  the  principle  of  art 
on  which  this  drama  was  constructed — that  of  sublimating  all  that  is  literal  and  common  in  human 
actions  and  human  thoughts,  by  the  force  of  passion  and  imagination,  throwing  their  rich  colours 
upon  the  chief  actors,  and  colouring,  upon  an  indispensable  law  of  harmony,  all  the  groups 
around  them — we  shall  reject,  as  utterly  unworthy,  all  that  miscalled  criticism  which  takes  its 
stand  upon  a  material  foundation — and,  dealing  with  high  poetry  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  demon- 
strations and  syllogisms,  tells  us  that  Shakspere's  comic  scenes  are  here  "  happily  wrought,  but 
his  pathetic  strains  are  always  polluted  with  some  unexpected  depravations.  His  persons,  how- 
ever distressed,  have  a  conceit  left  them  in  their  misery,  a  miserable  conceit."* 

The  first  scenes  of  nearly  every  play  of  Shakspere  are  remarkable  for  the  skill  with  which  they 
prepare  the  mind  for  all  the  after  scenes.  We  do  not  see  the  succession  of  scenes ;  the  catastrophe 
is  unrevealed.  But  we  look  into  a  dim  and  distant  prospect,  and  by  what  is  in  the  foreground, 
we  can  form  a  general  notion  of  the  landscape  that  will  be  presented  to  us,  as  the  clouds  roll 
away,  and  the  sun  lights  up  its  wild  mountains,  or  its  fertile  valleys.  When  Sampson  and  Gre- 
gory enter  "  armed  with  swords  and  bucklers" — when  we  hear,  "  a  dog  of  the  house  of  Montague 
moves  me" — we  know  that  these  are  not  common  servants,  and  live  not  in  common  times  :  witli 
them  the  excitement  of  party-spirit  does  not  rise  into  sti-ong  passion, — it  presents  its  ludicrous 
side.  They  quarrel  like  angry  curs  who  snarl,  yet  are  afraid  to  bite.  But  the  "  furious  Tybalt" 
in  a  moment  shews  us  that  these  hasty  quarrels  cannot  have  peaceful  endings.  The  strono-  arm 
of  authority  suspends  the  affray ;  but  the  spirit  of  enmity  is  not  put  down.  The  movement  of 
this  scene  is  as  rapid  as  the  quarrel  itself.  It  produces  the  effect  upon  the  mind  of  something 
which  startles — almost  terrifies ;  which  passes  away  into  repose,  but  which  leaves  an  ineftaceable 
impression  upon  the  senses.     The  calm  immediately  succeeds.     Benvolio's  speech, 

' '  Madam,  an  hour  before  the  worshipp'd  sun 
Peer'd  forth  the  golden  window  of  the  east," 

at  once  shews  us  that  we  are  entering  into  the  region  of  high  poetry.  Coleridge  remarks  that  the 
succeeding  speech  of  old  Montague  exhibits  the  poetical  aspect  of  the  play  even  more  strikingly : — 

"  Many  a  morning  hath  he  there  been  seen, 
With  tears  augmenting  the  fresli  morning's  dew." 

It  is,  remarkable  that  the  speech  thus  commencing,  which  contains  twenty  lines  as  highly  wrought 
as  anything  in  Shakspere,  is  not  in  the  first  copy  of  this  play.  The  experience  of  the  artist 
taught  him  where  to  lay  on  the  poetical  colouring  brighter  and  brighter.  How  beautifully  these 
lines  prepare  us  for  the  appearance  of  Romeo — the  now  musing,  abstracted  Romeo — the  Romeo, 
who,  like  the  lover  of  Chaucer, 

" solitary  was  ever  alone. 


And  waking  all  the  night,  making  moan." 

The  love  of  Romeo  was  unrequited  love.  It  was  a  sentiment  rather  than  a  passion — a  love  which 
displayed  itself  "  in  the  numbers  that  Petrarch  flowed  in" — a  love  that  solaced  itself  in  antithetical 
conceits  upon  its  own  misery,  and  would  draw  consolation  from  melancholy  associations.  It  was 
the  love  without  the  "true  Promethean  fire."  But  it  was  the  fit  preparation  for  what  was  to 
follow.  The  dialogue  between  Capulet  and  Paris  prepares  us  for  Juliet — the  "  hopeful  lady  of 
his  earth,"  who 

"  Hath  not  seen  the  change  of  fourteen  years." 

The  old  man  does  not  think  her  "  ripe  to  be  a  bride ;"  but  we  are  immediately  reminded  of  the 
precocity  of  nature  under  a  southern  sun,  by  another  magical  touch  of  poetry,  which  tells  us  of 
youth  and  freshness— of  summer  in  "  April" — of  "fresh  female  buds"  breatliing  the  fragrance  of 
opening  flowers.  Juliet  at  length  comes.  We  see  the  submissive  and  gentle  girl ;  but  the  gar- 
rulity of  the  Nurse  carries  us  back  even  to  the 

"  Prettiest  babe  that  e'er  I  nurs'd." 

Neither  Juliet  nor  Romeo  had  rightly  read  their  own  hearts.  He  was  sighing  for  a  shadow — 
she  fancied  that  she  could  subject  her  feelings  to  the  will  of  others  : — 

*  Johnson's  concluding  Hemarks  on  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

79 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

"  I  '11  look  to  like,  if  looking  liking  move  ; 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye, 
Than  your  consent  gives  strength  to  make  it  fly." 

The  preparation  for  their  first  interview  goes  forward  :  Benvolio  has  persuaded  Romeo  to  go  to 
Capulet's  feast.  There  is  a  slight  pause  in  the  action,  but  how  gracefully  is  it  filled  up.  Mercutio 
comes  upon  the  scene.  Coleridge  has  described  him,  as  "that  exquisite  ebullience  and  overflow 
of  youthful  life,  wafted  on  over  the  laughing  waves  of  pleasure  and  prosperity,  as  a  wanton  beauty 
that  distorts  the  face  on  which  she  knows  her  lover  is  gazing  enraptured,  and  wrinkles  her  fore- 
head in  the  triumph  of  its  smoothness !  Wit  ever  wakeful,  fancy  busy  and  procreative  as  an  insect, 
courage,  an  easy  mind  that,  without  cares  of  its  own,  is  at  once  disposed  to  laugh  away  those  of 
others,  and  yet  to  be  interested  in  them, — these  and  all  other  congenial  qualities,  melting  into  the 
common  copula  of  them  all,  the  man  of  rank  and  the  gentleman,  with  all  its  excellences  and  all 
its  weaknesses,  constitute  the  character  of  Mercutio  !"*  Is  this  praise  of  Mercutio  over-charged? 
We  think  not,  looking  at  him  dramatically.  He  is  placed  by  the  side  of  Romeo,  to  contrast  with 
him,  but  also  to  harmonize.  The  poetry  of  Mercutio  is  that  of  fancy  : — the  poetry  of  Romeo  is 
that  of  imagination.  The  wit  of  Mercutio  is  the  overflow  of  animal  spirits,  occasionally  polluted, 
like  a  spring  pure  from  the  well-head,  by  the  soil  over  which  it  passes : — the  wit  of  Romeo  is 
somewhat  artificial,  and  scarcelj'^  self-sustained ; — it  is  the  unaccustomed  play  of  the  intellect 
when  the  passions  "  have  come  to  the  clenching  point," — but  it  is  under  control — it  has  no  exu- 
berance which,  like  the  wit  of  Mercutio,  admits  the  colouring  of  the  sensual  and  the  sarcastic. 
The  courage  of  Mercutio  is,  in  the  same  way,  the  courage  of  high  animal  spirits,  fearless  of  con- 
sequences, and  laughing  even  when  it  has  paid  the  penalty  of  its  rashness — "  Ask  for  me  to-morrow, 
and  you  shall  find  me  a  grave  man."     The  courage  of  Romeo  is  reflective  and  forbearing, — 

"  1  do  protest,  I  never  injured  thee." 

But  when  liis  friend  has  fallen,  his  "  newly  entertain'd  revenge"  casts  off  all  control — 

'  Away  to  heaven  respective  lenity  \ 

Then,  again,  how  finely  the  calm,  benevolent  good  sense  of  Benvolio  blends  with  these  opposites! 
But  the  masquerade  waits.  We  have  here  the  realization  of  youth  and  freshness  which  Capulet 
promised  to  Paris ;  but  at  the  moment  when  we  see  "  the  guests  and  the  maskers"  we  have  a 
touch  in  the  expression  of  the  old  man's  natural  feelings,  which  tells  us  how  perishable  these 
things  are : — 

" I  have  seen  the  dav, 


That  I  have  worn  a  visor;  and  could  tell 

\  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear,  ^  -.'■,?ft  ffp 

Such  as  would  please ; — 't  is  gone,  't  is  gone,  't  is  gone !" 

But  Juliet  appears,  and  we  think  not  of  decay.  We  forget  that  "  one  generation  pushes  another 
off  the  stage."  The  very  first  words  of  Romeo  shew  the  change  that  has  come  o'er  him.  He 
w^tjijitotliat..  "haU  in  Capulet' s  house,"  fearing 

'l''jV'>uJc;      .O/'/j     0rfUf),f:"n      "  Some  consequence  yet  hanging  in  the  stars." 

He  had  "a  soul  of  lead" — he  would  be  a  candle-holder  and  look  on."  But  he  has  seen  Juliet  j 
and  -witU  what  gorgeous  images  has  that  sight  filled  his  imagination ! 

,f,   jJoaI  0  "  O  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  hurn  bright ;  fioILiTJ 

.  Her  beauty  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  night 

5rlj  «JJ  HTM)  ^^s  a  yjgh  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear." 

w  IT      ;a('  [  ■ ' 

We  have  now  the  poetry  of  passion  bursting  upon  us  with  its  purple  light.  Compare  this  with 
the  pale  poetry  of  sentiment  in  the  first  scene,  when  he  talks  of  Rosaline  being 

" too  fair,  too  wise,  wisely  too  fair." 

Perfectly  in  accordance  with  this  exaltation  of  mind  is  the  addressof  Romeo  to  Juliet.  The  dialogue 
must  be  considered  as  that  of  persons  each  acting  a  character.  But  there  is  more  in  it  than  meets 
the  ear; — it  is  not  entirely  the  half  expression  of  the  thoughts  of  two  maskers : — there  is  an  under- 

»  Literary  Keinains,  vol.  ii. 

80   • 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

current  of  reality  wliicli  blends  the  language  of  affection  witli  the  language  of  compliment.  When 
Romeo  asks  of  the  Nurse,  "  What  is  lier  mother?"  and  when  Juliet  inquires, 

"What 's  ho  that  now  Is  going  out  of  door  ?" 

we  see  "  the  beginning  of  the  end."     But  we  do  not  forget  that  the  anger  of  Tybalt  at  Romeo's 
presence  has  thrown  a  shadow  over  the  brightness  of  their  young  love.     The  maskers  are  gone — 
the  torches  are  extinguished— the  voice  of  the  revelry  has  ceased. 
Romeo  has  leapt  the  wall  of  Capulet's  garden.     There  are  no  longer 

"  Earlh-treading  stars  that  make  dark  heaven  light." 

He  has  found  a  sequestered  spot  far  apart  from  that  banquetting  hall  from  which  his  Juliet 
descended,  amidst  the  gay  groups  that  floated  about  in  that  garden,  to  hang 

" upon  the  cheek  of  night 

As  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear." 

He  is  alone,  the  moon 

"Tips  with  silver  all  those  fruit-tree  tops." 

He  hears  in  the  distant  street  the  light-hearted  Mercutio  calling  upon  him  by  the  names  of 

"Humours,  passion,  madman,  lover." 

But  he  heeds  him  not.     Juliet  appears.     She  speaks. 

"  O,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night,  being  o'er  my  head. 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white,  up-turned,  wond'ring  eyes 
Of  mortals,  that  fall  back  to  gaze  on  him, 
When  he  bestrides  the  lazy-pacing  clouds. 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 

From  this  poetical  elevation  it  would  seem  almost  impossible  for  the  lover  to  descend  to  earth, — 
and  yet  the  earth  hath  visions  of  tenderness  and  purity,  which  equally  belong  to  the  highest  region 
of  poetry.     The  fears  of  Juliet  for  his  safety — the  "farewell  compliment" — the 

"In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond;" — 

the  "  do  not  swear ;" — the 

"  stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again ;" — 

the 

"If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honourable :" — 

all  these  indications  of  the  union  of  "  purity  of  heart  and  the  glow  of  imagination"  belong  to  the 
highest  region  of  an  ideal  world,  and  yet  are  linked  to  this  our  own  world  of  beauty  and  frailty. 
This  is  one  of  the  great  scenes  of  the  poem  which  cannot  be  comprehended  if  disjoined  from  all 
that  is  about  it ;  any  more  than  Juliet's  soliloquy,  in  the  third  Act,  after  her  marriage.  It  is  one 
of  the  scenes  that  is  consequently  obnoxious  to  a  false  ridicule,  and,  what  is  worse,  to  a  grovelling 
criticism.  In  the  midst  of  the  intensity  of  Juliet's  "  timidly  bold  declaration  of  love,"  Steevens 
inserts  one  of  the  atrocious  notes  that  he  perpetrated  under  the  fictitious  name  of  Amner.  It  is 
a  warning  to  us  how  far  a  prosaic  spirit  may  descend  into  the  dirt,  when  it  attempts  to  deal  with 
a  great  artist  without  reverence  for  his  art.  There  are  three  modes  in  which  criticism,  or  what  is 
called  criticism,  may  be  applied  to  high  art.  The  first  is,  where  the  critic  endeavours  to  look  at 
an  entire  work, — not  at  parts  of  a  work  only, — in  some  degree  through  the  same  medium  as  the 
poet  looked  at  his  unformed  creations.  The  second  is,  where  the  critic  rejects  that  medium,  for 
the  most  part  through  incapacity  of  using  it,  and  peers  through  the  smoked  glass  of  what  he 
calls  common  sense,  that  his  eyes,  forsooth,  may  not  be  dazzled.  The  third  is,  where  the  critic, 
from  a  superabundance  of  the  power  of  detecting  what  appears  the  ridiculous  side  of  things 
(which  results  from  a  deficiency  of  imagination),  takes  a  caricaturist's  view  of  the  highest  exer- 
cises of  the  intellect,  and  asserts  his  own  cleverness  by  presenting  a  travestie.  The  first  system, 
though  it  may  be  the  most  difficult,  is  the  most  safe ;  the  tliird,  though  it  appears  the  most  insi- 
dious, is  the  least  injurious  ;  the  second  is,  at  once,  easy  and  debasing  ;  it  may  begin  in  Steevens 
and  end  in  Anmer. 

81 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

The  "  silver-sweet"  sound  of  "lovers'  tongues  by  night"  is  hushed.  "  The  grey-eyed  morn" 
sees  the  friar  in  his  cell,  bearing  his  "  osier  cage"  of 

"  Baleful  weeds,  and  precious  juiced  flowers." 

Here  is  a  new  link  in  the  conduct  of  the  story.  And  what  a  beautiful  transition  have  we  made 
from  the  elevated  poetry  of  passion  to  the  scarcely  less  elevated  poetry  of  philosophy.  The  old 
man,  whose  pious  thoughts  shape  themselves  into  sweet  and  solemn  cadences,  stands  as  the 
antagonist  principle  of  the  passionate  conflicts  that  are  going  on  around  him.  He  is  to  be  a  great 
agent  in  the  workings  of  the  drama.  He  would  close  up  the  dissensions  of  the  rival  houses — he 
would  make  the  new  lovers  blessed  in  their  union — he  would  assuage  the  misery  of  Romeo's 
exile — he  would  save  his  lady  from  an  unholy  marriage — he  would  join  them  again  in  life, 
although  the  tomb  appears  to  have  separated  them.  The  good  old  man  will  rely  too  much  upon 
his  philosophy,  and  his  skilful  dealing  with  human  actions ;  as  the  lovers  have  already  relied  too 
much  upon  the  integrity  of  their  passion  as  a  shield  against  calamity.  The  half-surprise,  the  half- 
gladness  of  the  friar,  when  Romeo  tells  him  where  his  "heart's  dear  love  is  set,"  are  delightful. 
The  reproof  that  is  meant  for  a  commendation — the  "  come,  young  waverer" — the  "wisely  and 
slow," — are  all  true  to  nature.  But  Romeo  has  secured  his  purpose,  and  his  heart  is  at  ease. 
Then  is  he  fit  to  play  a  part  in  the  comic  scenes  that  succeed, — to  bandy  words  with  Mercutio — 
to  be  pleasant  with  the  Nurse.     But  Juliet's  soliloquy  while  she  is  waiting  for  the  Nurse, 

"  O,  she  is  lame !  love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts," 

and  the  scene  with  Romeo,  Juliet,  and  the  friar,  again  bring  us  back  to  the  high  region  of  poetry. 
The  latter  scene  was  greatly  elaborated  after  the  first  draft.  It  was  originally  a  simple  melody, 
but  now  it  flows  with  the  full  harmony  of  the  three  voices  in  unison. 

We  have  almost  lost  sight  of  the  quarrels  of  the  rival  houses  of  Verona. — We  see  only  the  two 
lovers,  who  cannot  sum  up  "  half  their  sum  of  wealth,"  and  have  forgotten  their  names  of 
Montague  and  Capulet  as  names  of  strife.  But  an  evil  hour  is  approaching.  The  brawl  with 
which  the  drama  opened  is  to  be  renewed — 

"  The  day  is  hot^  the  Capulets  abroad." 

The  "  fiery  Tybalt"  and  the  "  bold  Mercutio"  are  the  first  victims  of  this  factious  hate — and 
Romeo  is  banished.  The  action  does  not  move  laggingly — all  is  heat  and  precipitation.  Juliet 
sits  alone  in  her  bower,  unconscious  of  all  but  her  impassioned  imaginings.  She  thinks  aloud  in 
the  solitude  which  is  around  her,  with  a  characteristic  vehemence  of  temperament ;  but  in  this 
soliloquy  "  there  is  something  so  almost  infantine  in  her  perfect  simplicity,  so  playful  and  fantastic 
in  the  imagery  and  language,  that  the  charm  of  sentiment  and  innocence  is  thrown  over  the 
whole."*  The  scene  in  which  the  Nurse  tells  her  disjointed  story  of  Tybalt's  death  is  a  master- 
piece. We  have  here  to  encounter  the  often  repeated  objection,  that  Shakspere  uses  conceits 
when  he  ought  to  be  expressing  the  language  of  vehement  passion.  The  conceits  are  not  in 
accordance  with  the  general  taste  of  our  own  age,  though  they  were  so  with  that  of  Shakspere's. 
But  they  have  a  much  higher  justification.  They  are  the  results  of  strong  emotion,  seeking  to 
relieve  itself  by  a  violent  effort  of  the  intellect,  that  the  will  may  recover  its  balance.  Imme- 
diately after  the  lines  in  which  we  have  that  play  upon  words  whose  climax  is, 

"  I  am  not  I,  if  there  be  such  an  I," 

we  come  at  once  to  an  exclamation  of  the  deepest  pathos  and  simplicity : — 

"  O  break  my  heart! — poor  bankroutj" — 

and  then,  when  Juliet  knows  that  Romeo  is  not  dead,  but  that  Tybalt  has  fallen  by  the  hand  of 
her  husband,  Avhat  a  natural  revulsion  of  feeling  succeeds — 

"  O,  that  deceit  should  dwell 
In  such  a  gorgeous  palace !" 

The  transition  from  her  reproach  of  Tybalt's  murderer,  to  a  glorious  trust  in  the  integrity  of  her 
lord,  is  surpassingly  beautiful.     Not  less  beautiful  is  the  passion  which  Romeo  exhibits  in  the 

*  Mrs.  .lameson's  Characteristics  of  Women,  third  edition,  vol.  i.  p.  193. 

82 


ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

friar's  cell.  Each  of  the  lovers  in  these  scenes  shews  the  intensity  of  their  abandonment  to  an 
overmastering  will.  ''  They  see  only  themselves  in  the  universe."  That  is  the  true  moral  of 
their  fate.  But  even  under  the  direst  calamity,  they  catch  at  the  one  joy  which  is  left — the  short 
meeting  before  the  parting.  And  what  a  parting  that  is !  Here,  again,  comes  the  triumph  of 
the  beautiful  over  the  merely  tragic.  They  are  once  more  calm.  Their  love  again  breathes  of 
all  the  sweet  sights  and  sounds  in  a  world  of  beauty.  They  are  parting — but  the  almost  happy 
Juliet  says, — 

"  It  is  not  yet  near  day, — 
"  Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale." 

Romeo,  who  sees  the  danger  of  delay,  is  not  deceived — 

"  It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  mom." 

Then  what  a  burst  of  poetiy  follows  : — 

"  Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountains'  tops." 

The  scene  closes  with  that  exquisite  display  of  womanly  tenderness  in  Juliet,  which  hurries  from 
the  forgetfulness  of  joy  in  her  husband's  presence,  to  apprehension  for  his  safety.  After  this 
scene,  we  are  almost  content  to  think,  as  Romeo  fancied  he  thought, 

"  come  what  sorrow  can, 
It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy." 

The  sorrow  does  come  upon  poor  Juliet  with  redoubled  force.  The  absolute  father,  the  unyielding 
mother,  the  treacherous  Nurse, — all  hurrying  her  into  a  loathed  marriage, — might  drive  one  less 
resolved  to  the  verge  of  madness.     But  from  this  moment  her  love  has  become  heroism.    She  sees 

"  Ko  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds — " 

she  rejects  her  Nurse — she  resolves  to  deceive  her  parents.  This  scene  brings  out  her  character 
in  its  strongest  and  most  beautiful  relief.  The  Nurse,  in  the  grossness  of  her  nature,  has  dared 
to  talk  to  the  wife  of  Romeo — the  all-loving  and  devoted  wife — of  the  green  eye  of  Paris !  The 
Nurse  mistook  the  one  passion  of  Juliet — the  sense  raised  into  soul — for  a  grovelling  quality  that 
her  lofty  imagination  would  utterly  despise.  "O  most  wicked  fiend!"  Not  so  Juliet's  other 
counsellor.  The  friar  estimated  her  constancy,  and  he  did  "  spy  a  kind  of  hope"  that  it  might 
be  rewarded.  He  saw  that  Juliet  would,  at  all  hazards,  put  away  "  the  shame"  of  marrying 
Paris.  Well  had  the  friar  reckoned  upon  her  "  strength  of  will."  The  scene  in  his  cell,  and  the 
subsequent  scene  when  she  swallows  the  draught,  are  amongst  the  most  powerful  in  the  play  ; 
and  yet  we  never  lose  sight  of  the  highest  poetry,  mingling  what  is  grand  with  what  is  beautiful. 
When  Juliet  is  supposed  to  be  dead,  nature  again  asserts  her  empire  over  the  tetchy  and  absolute 
father,  and  the  mother  weeps  over  the 

"  One,  poor  one,  one  poor  and  loving  child." 

Here,  again,  the  gentle  poetry  of  common  feelings  comes  to  the  relief  of  the  scene ;  and  the  friar 
brings  in  a  higher  poetry  in  the  consolations  of  divine  truth. 

As  we  approach  the  catastrophe,  the  poetical  cast  of  Romeo's  mind  becomes  even  more  clearly 
defined  than  in  the  earlier  scenes.  It  was  first  fanciful,  then  imaginative,  then  impassioned — but 
when  deep  sorrow  has  been  added  to  his  love,  and  he  treads  upon  the  threshold  of  the  world  of 
shadows,  it  puts  on  even  a  higher  character  of  beauty.  We  have  elsewhere  spoken*  of  the  cele- 
brated speech  of  the  "  Apothecary ;"  refusing  to  believe  that  it  forms  an  exception  to  the  general 
character  of  the  beauty  that  throws  its  rich  evening  light  over  the  closing  scenes.  The  gentleness 
of  Romeo  is  apparent,  even  while  he  says — 

"  The  time  and  my  intents  are  savage-wild;" 

for  he  adds,  with  a  strong  efibrt,  to  his  faithful  Balthasar, 

"  Live,  and  be  prosperous,  and  farewell,  good  fellow." 
*  Illustrations  of  Act  V. 

83 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

His  entreaties  to  Paris — "  O  be  gone  !" — are  full  of  the  same  tenderness.  He  is  constrained  to 
fight  with  him — he  slays  him — but  he  almost  weeps  over  him,  as 

"  One  writ  with  me  in  sour  misfortune's  book." 

The  remainder  of  Romeo's  speech  in  the  tomb  is,  as  Coleridge  has  put  it,  "  the  master  example, 
how  beauty  can  at  once  increase  and  modify  passion." 

"  O  here 
Will  I  set  up  my  everlasting  rest, 
And  shake  the  yoke  of  inauspicious  stars, 
From  this  world-wearied  flesh." 

This  is  the  one  portion  of  the  "  melancholy  elegy  on  the  frailty  of  love,  from  its  own  nature  and 
external  circumstances,"*  which  Romeo  sings  before  his  last  sleep.  And  how  beautifully  is  the 
corresponding  part  sung  by  the  waking  and  dying  Juliet : — 

"  What 's  here  ?  a  cup,  clos'd  in  my  true  love's  hand  ? 
Poison,  I  see,  hath  been  his  timeless  end ; — 
O  churl !  drink  all,  and  left  no  friendly  drop. 
To  help  me  after  ? — I  will  kiss  thy  lips ; 
Haply  some  poison  yet  doth  hang  on  them 
To  make  me  die  with  a  restorative." 

They  have  paid  the  penalty  of  the  fierce  hatreds  that  were  engendered  around  them,  and  of  theii- 
own  precipitancy.  But  their  misfortunes  and  their  loves  have  healed  the  enmities  of  which  they 
were  the  victims.    *' Poor  sacrifices!"     Capulet  may  now  say, 

"  O,  brother  Montague,  give  me  thy  hand." 

They  have  left  a  peace  behind  them  which  they  could  not  taste  themselves.  But  their  first  "  rash 
and  unadvis'd"  contract  was  elevated  into  all  that  was  pure  and  beautiful,  by  their  after  sorrows 
and  their  constancy :  and  in  happier  regions  their  affections  may  put  on  that  calmness  of  immor- 
tality which  the  ancients  typified  in  their  allegory  of  Love  and  the  Soul. 

*  A.  W.  Schlegel. 


84 


fe") 


7<'?"7'"/rr  r 


m  \iO^^ 


i  Hill 


[Danish  Lutes.] 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Hamlet. 

The  earliest  edition  of  Hamlet  known  to  exist  is  that  of  1603.  It  bears  the  following  title  :  '  The 
Tragicall  Historic  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Dcnmarke,  by  William  Shakc-spcare.  As  it  hath  beene 
diverse  times  acted  by  his  Highnesse  servants  in  the  Cittie  of  London  :  as  also  in  the  two  Universi- 
ties of  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  and  elsewhere.  At  London,  printed  for  N.  L.  and  John  Tnmdell, 
1603.'  The  only  known  copy  of  this  edition  is  in  the  library  of  the  Dvike  of  Devonshire ;  and 
that  copy  is  not  quite  perfect.     It  was  reprinted  in  1825. 

The  second  edition  of  Hamlet  was  printed  in  1604,  under  the  following  title:  'The  Tragicall 
Historic  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmarke.  By  William  Shakespeare.  Newly  imprinted  and  en- 
larged to  almost  as  much  againe  as  it  was,  according  to  the  true  and  perfect  coppie.  Printed  by  J. 
R.  for  N.  Landm-e,  1604,  4to.'  This  edition  was  reprinted  in  1605,  in  1609,  in  1611,  and  there  is 
also  a  quarto  edition  without  a  date.  Steevens  has  reprmted  the  edition  of  1611,  in  his  twenty 
plays. 

In  the  folio  of  1623  some  passages  which  are  foimd  in  the  quarto  of  1604  are  omitted.  In  our 
text  we  have  given  these  passages,  indicating  them  as  they  occur.  In  other  respects  our  text,  with 
one  or  two  minute  exceptions,  is  wholly  founded  upon  the  folio  of  1623.  From  this  circumstance 
our  edition  will  be  found  considerably  to  differ  from  the  text  of  Johnson  and  Steevens,  of  Reed,  of 
Malone,  and  of  all  the  current  editions  which  are  founded  upon  these.  Mr.  Caldecott  alone,  in  his 
'  Specimen  of  an  Edition  of  Shakspeare,'  privately  printed  in  1832,  recognises  the  authority  of 
the  folio  of  1623.  We  cannot  comprehend  the  pertinacity  with  which  Steevens  and  Malone  re- 
jected this  authority.  There  cannot  be  a  doubt,  we  apprehend,  that  the  verbal  changes  in  the  text 
were  the  corrections  of  the  author.  We  have  given  the  parallel  passages  in  the  quarto  of  1604  in 
our  foot  notes. 

In  the  reprint  of  the  edition  of  1603,  it  is  stated  to  be  "  the  only  known  copy  of  this  tragedy,  as 
originally  written  by  Shakespeare,  which  he  afterwards  altered  and  enlarged."  We  beheve  that 
this  description  is  correct ;  that  this  remarkable  copy  gives  us  the  play  as  originally  written  by 
Shakspere.  It  may  have  been  piratical,  and  we  think  it  was  so.  It  may,  as  Mr.  Collier  says,  have 
been  "published  in  haste  from  a  short-hand  copy,  taken  from  the  mouths  of  the  players."  But 
this  process  was  not  applied  to  the  present  Hamlet;  the  Hamlet  of  1603  is  a  sketch  of  the  perfect 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Hamlet,  and  probal)ly  a  corrupt  copy  of  that  sketch.  Mr.  Caldecott  believes  that  this  copy  exhi- 
bits, "in  that  which  was  afterwards  wrought  into  a  splendid  drama,  the  first  conception,  and  com- 
paratively feeble  expression,  of  a  great  mind."  We  think,  further,  that  this  first  conception  was  an 
early  conception ;  that  it  was  remodelled, — "  enlarged  to  almost  as  much  againe  as  it  was," — at  the 
beginning  of  the  17th  century;  and  that  this  original  copy  being  then  of  comparatively  little  value 
was  jjiratically  published. 

It  is,  perhaps,  fortunate  as  regards  the  integrity  of  the  current  text  of  Hamlet,  that  the  quarto 
of  1603  was  unknown  to  the  commentators;  for  they  unquestionably  would  have  done  with  it 
as  they  did  with  the  first  sketch  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  They  woidd  have  foisted  passages  into  the 
amended  play  which  the  author  had  rejected,  and  have  termed  this  process  a  recovery  of  the  ori- 
ginal text.  Without  employing  this  copy  in  so  unjustifiable  a  manner,  we  have  availed  ourselves 
of  it,  in  several  cases,  as  throwing  a  new  liglit  upon  difficult  passages.  But  the  highest  interest  of 
tliis  edition  consists,  as  we  believe,  in  the  opportunity  which  it  affords  of  studying  the  growth,  not 
only  of  our  great  poet's  command  over  language — not  only  of  his  dramatical  skill, — but  of  the 
higher  qualities  of  his  intellect — his  profound  philosophy,  his  wonderful  penetration  into  what  is 
most  hidden  and  obscure  in  men's  characters  and  motives.  We  request  the  reader's  indulgence 
whilst  we  attempt  to  point  out  some  of  the  more  important  considerations  which  have  suggested 
themselves  to  us,  in  a  careftd  study  of  this  original  edition. 

And,  first,  let  us  state  that  all  the  action  of  the  amended  Hamlet  is  to  be  found  in  the  first  sketch. 
The  play  opens  with  the  scene  in  which  the  Ghost  appears  to  Horatio  and  Marcellus.  Tlie  order 
of  the  dialogue  is  the  same  ;  but,  in  the  quarto  of  1604,  it  is  a  little  elaborated.    The  grand  passage 

beginning — • 

"  In  tlie  most  liigh  and  palmy  state  of  Rome," 

is  not  found  in  this  copy ;  and  it  is  omitted  in  the  foHo.     The  second  scene  introduces  us,  as  at  pre- 
sent, to  the  King,  Queen,  Hamlet,  Poloniiis,  and  Laertes,  but  in  this  copy  Polonius  is  called  Co- 
rambis.     The  dialogue  here  is  much  extended  in  the  perfect  copy.     We  will  give  an  example : — 
[Quarto  of  1603.]  [Quarto  of  1604.] 

Ham.  "  My  lord,  'tis  not  the  sable  suit  I  wear  ;  Ham.  "  'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother. 

No,  nor  the  tears  that  still  stand  in  my  eyes.  Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black. 

Nor  the  distracted  'haviour  in  the  visage.  Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forc'd  breath. 

Nor  all  together  mixt  with  outward  semblance.  No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye. 

Is  eiiual  to  the  sorrow  of  my  heart ;  Nor  tlie  dejected  'haviour  of  the  visage. 

Him  have  I  lost  I  must  of  course  forgo.  Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief. 

These,  but  the  ornaments  and  suits  of  woe."  That  can  denote  me  truly  :  these,  indeed,  seem. 

For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  ; 
Bvit  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show ; 
These,  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe." 

We  would  ask  if  it  is  possible  that  such  a  careful  working  up  of  the  first  idea  could  have  been  any 
other  work  than  that  of  the  poet  himself?  Can  the  alterations  be  accounted  for  upon  the  principle 
that  the  first  edition  was  an  imperfect  copy  of  the  complete  play,  "  published  in  haste  from  a  short- 
hand copy  taken  from  the  mouths  of  the  players  ?"     Could  the  players  have  transformed  the  line — 

"  But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show," 
into, 

"  Him  have  I  lost  I  must  of  force  forgo." 

The  haste  of  short-hand  does  not  account  for  what  is  truly  the  refinement  of  the  poetical  art.  The 
same  nice  elaboration  is  to  be  found  in  Hamlet's  soliloquy  in  the  same  scene.  In  the  first  copy  we 
have  not  the  passage  so  characteristic  of  Hamlet's  mind, 

"  How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  improfitable. 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world." 

Neither  have  we  the  noble  comparison  of  "  Hyperion  to  a  satyr."  The  fine  Shaksperian  phrase,  so 
deep  in  its  metaphysical  truth,  "a  beast  that  ivants  discourse  of  reason,"  is,  in  the  first  copy,  "a 
beast  devoid  of  reason."  Shakspere  must  have  dropt  verse  from  his  mouth,  as  the  fairy  in  the  Ara- 
bian tales  dropt  pearls.  It  appears  to  have  been  no  effort  to  him  to  have  changed  the  whole  arrange- 
ment of  a  poetical  sentence,  and  to  have  inverted  its  different  members  ;  he  did  this  as  readily  as  if 
he  were  dealing  with  prose.     In  the  first  copy  we  have  these  lines, — 

"  Why,  she  would  hang  on  him  as  if  increase 
Of  appetite  had  gio\vn  by  what  it  look'd  on." 
88 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

In  the  amended  cojjy  we  have — 

"  Must  I  remember?     Why,  she  would  liang  ou  him 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  liad  grown 
l$y  what  it  fed  on." 

Such  changes  are  not  the  work  of  short-hand  writers. 

Tlie  interview  of  Horatio,  Bernardo,  and  Marcelhis  witli  Hamlet,  succeeds  as  in  tlie  perfect  copj^, 
and  the  cliange  here  is  very  shght.  The  scene  between  Laertes  and  Ophelia  in  tlie  same  manner 
follows.  Here  again  there  is  a  great  extension.  The  injunction  of  Laertes  in  the  first  copy  is 
contained  in  these  few  lines  : — 

"  I  see  Prince  Hamlet  makes  a  show  of  love. 
Beware,  Ophelia ;  do  not  trust  his  vows. 
Perhaps  he  loves  you  now,  and  now  his  tongue 
Speaks  from  his  heart ;  but  yet  take  heed,  my  sister. 
The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough 
If  she  mimask  her  beauty  to  the  moon ; 
Virtue  itself  'scapes  not  calumnious  thoughts  : 
Believ't,  Ophelia;  therefore  keep  aloof, 
Lest  tliat  he  trip  thy  honour  and  thy  fame." 

Compare  this  with  the  splendid  passage  which  we  now  liave.  Look  especially  at  the  following  lines, 
in  which  we  see  the  deep  philosophic  spirit  of  the  mature  Shakspere  : — 

"  For  nature,  crescent,  does  not  grow  alone 

In  thews,  and  bulk  ;  but,  as  this  temple  waxes. 
The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul 
Grows  wide  withal." 

Polonius  and  his  few  precepts  next  occur ;  and  here  again  there  is  slight  difference.  The  lecture  of 
the  old  courtier  to  his  daughter  is  somewhat  extended.  In  the  next  scene,  where  Hamlet  encoun- 
ters the  Ghost,  there  is  very  little  change.  We  have  noticed  in  our  illustrations  how  the  poet  intro- 
duced in  the  perfect  copy  a  modification  of  the  censure  of  the  Danish  wassels.  In  all  the  rest  of  the 
scene  there  is  scarcely  a  difference  between  the  two  copies.  The  cliaracter  of  Hamlet  is  fully  con- 
ceived in  the  original  play,  whenever  he  is  in  action,  as  in  this  scene.  It  is  the  contemplative  part 
of  his  nature  which  is  elaborated  in  the  perfect  copy.  This  great  scene,  as  it  was  first  written, 
appeared  to  the  poet  to  have  been  scarcely  capable  of  improvement. 

The  character  of  Polonius,  under  the  name  of  Corambis,  presents  itself  in  the  original  copy  with 
little  variation.  We  have  extension,  but  not  change.  As  we  proceed,  we  find  that  Shakspere  in 
the  first  copy  more  emphatically  marked  the  supposed  madness  of  Hamlet  than  he  thought  fit  to  do 
in  the  amended  copy.     Thus  Ophelia  does  not,  as  now,  say, — 

"  Alas  my  lord,  my  lord,  I  have  been  so  affrighted;" 

but  she  comes  at  once  to  proclaim  Hamlet  mad : — 

"  O  my  dear  father,  such  a  change  in  nature. 
So  great  an  alteration  in  a  prince  1 
He  is  bereft  of  all  the  wealth  he  had ; 
Tlie  jewel  that  adorn' d  his  feature  most 
Is  iUch'd  and  stolen  away — his  wit's  bereft  him." 

Again,  in  the  next  scene,  when  the  King  communicates  his  wishes  to  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern, 
he  does  not  speak  of  Hamlet  as  merely  put  "from  the  understanding  of  himself;"  but  in  this  first 
copy  he  says — 

"  Our  dear  covisin  Hamlet 
Hath  lost  the  very  heart  of  all  his  sense." 

In  the  description  which  Polonius,  in  the  same  scene,  gives  of  Hamlet's  madness  for  Ophelia's  love, 
the  symptoms  are  made  much  stronger  in  the  original  copy  : — 

"  He  straightway  grew  into  a  melancholy; 
From  that  unto  a  fast ;  then  unto  distraction ; 
Then  into  a  sadness ;  from  that  unto  a  madness ; 
And  so  by  continuance  and  weakness  of  the  brain. 
Into  this  frenzy  which  now  possesses  him." 

It  is  curious  that  in  Burton's  '  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,'  we  have  the  stages  of  melancholy,  madness, 

89 


INTRODUCTOEY  NOTICE. 

and  frenzy,  indicated  as  described  by  Celsus ;  and  Burton  himself  mentions  frenzy  as  the  worst  stage 
of  madness,  "  clamorous,  continual."  In  the  first  copy,  therefore,  Hamlet,  according  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  Polonius,  is  not  only  the  prey  of  melancholy  and  madness,  but  "  by  continuance  "  of  frenzy. 
In  the  amended  copy  the  symptoms,  according  to  the  same  description,  are  much  mUder; — a  sadness 

a  fast a  watch — a  weakness — a  lightness, — and  a  madness.   The  reason  of  this  change  appears  to 

us  tolerably  clear.  Shakspere  did  not,  either  in  his  first  sketch  or  his  amended  copy,  intend  his 
audience  to  believe  that  Hamlet  was  essentially  mad ;  and  he  removed,  therefore,  the  strong  expres- 
sions which  might  encourage  that  belief. 

Immediately  after  the  scene  of  the  original  copy  in  which  Polonius  describes  Hamlet's  frenzy, 
Hamlet  comes  in  and  speaks  the  celebrated  soliloquy.  In  the  amended  copy  this  passage,  as  well 
as  the  scene  with  Ophelia  which  follows  it,  is  placed  after  Hamlet's  interview  with  the  players.  The 
soliloquy  in  the  first  copy  is  evidently  given  with  great  corruptions,  and  some  of  the  hnes  appear 
transposed  by  the  printer  :  on  the  contrary,  the  scene  with  Ophelia  is  very  slightly  altered.  The 
scene  with  Polonius,  now  the  second  scene  of  the  second  act,  follows  that  with  Ophelia  in  the  first 
copy.  In  the  interview  with  Guildenstern  and  Rosencrantz  the  dialogue  is  greatly  elaborated  in 
the  amended  copy ;  we  have  the  mere  germ  of  the  fine  passage,  "  This  goodly  frame,  the  earth,"  &c. 
— prose  with  almost  more  than  the  music  of  poetry.  In  the  first  copy,  instead  of  this  noble  piece 
of  rhetoric,  we  have  the  following  somewhat  tame  passage  : — 

"  Yes,  faith,  this  great  world  you  see  contents  me  not ;  no,  nor  the  spangled  heavens,  nor  earth,  nor  sea ;  no,  nor  man  that  is 
so  glorious  a  creature  contents  not  me ;  no,  nor  woman  too,  though  you  laugh." 

"We  pass  over  for  the  present  the  dialogue  between  Hamlet  and  the  players,  in  which  there  are 
considerable  variations,  not  only  between  the  first  and  second  quartos,  but  between  the  second 
quarto  and  the  folio,  tending,  as  we  think,  to  fix  the  date  of  each  copy.  In  the  same  way  we  pass 
over  the  speeches  from  the  play  "  that  pleased  not  the  million,"  as  well  as  the  directions  to  the 
players  in  the  next  act.  These  passages,  as  it  appears  to  us,  go  far  to  establish  the  point,  that  the 
Hamlet  of  the  edition  of  1603  was  an  early  production  of  the  poet.  Our  readers,  we  think,  will  be 
pleased  to  compare  the  following  passage  of  the  first  copy  and  the  amended  play,  which  offer  us  an 
example  of  the  most  surpassing  skill  in  the  elaboration  of  a  first  idea : — 

[Quarto  of  1603.]  [Quarto  of  1604.] 

Ham.  Horatio,  thou  art  even  as  just  a  man  nam.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 

As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal.  As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal. 

Hot.  O,  my  lord !  Hor.  O,  my  dear  lord  I 

2?am.  Nay,  why  should  I  flatter  thee  ?  Ham.  Nay  do  not  think  I  flatter : 

Wliy  should  the  poor  be  flatter'd  ?  For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 

'Wliat  gain  should  I  receive  by  flattering  thee.  That  no  revenue  hast,  but  thy  good  spirits. 

That  nothing  hath  but  thy  good  mind  ?  To  feed,  and  cloth  thee  ?     Wliy  should  the  poor  be  flat- 

Let  flattery  sit  on  those  time-pleasing  tongues,  ter'd  ? 

To  glose  with  them  that  love  to  hear  their  praise,  No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp. 

And  not  with  such  as  thou,  Horatio.  And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 

Wliere  thrift  may  follow  faining  !  Dost  thou  hear  ? 
Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  my  choice. 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 
Hath  scal'd  thee  for  herself:  for  thou  hath  been 
As  one  in  suffering  all  that  suffers  nothing ; 
A  mail  that  fortune's  buflets  and  rewards 
Has  ta'en  with  equal  thanks :  and  bless'd  are  those 
Whose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  co-mingled, 
Tliat  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 
To  sound  what  stop  she  please  :  Give  me  that  man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart. 
As  I  do  thee. — Something  too  much  of  this. 

Schlegel  observes,  that  "  Shakspere  has  composed  '  the  play '  in  Hamlet  altogether  in  sententious 
rhymes,  full  of  antitheses."     Let  us  give  an  example  of  this  in  the  opening  speech  of  the  king  :— 

"  Full  thirty  times  hath  Phoebus'  cart  gone  round, 
Neptune's  salt  wash,  and  Tellus'  orbed  ground ; 
And  thirty  dozen  moons  with  borrow'd  slicen. 
About  the  world  have  times  twelve  thirties  been. 
Since  love  our  hearts  and  Hymen  did  our  hands 
Unite,  commutual  in  most  sacred  bands." 
90 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

Hei-e  is  not  only  the  antithesis,  but  the  artificial  elevation,  that  was  to  keep  the  language  of  the 
interlude  apart  from  that  of  the  real  drama.  Shakspere  has  most  skilfully  managed  the  whole 
business  of  the  player-king  and  queen  upon  this  principle ;  but,  as  we  think,  when  he  wTote  his 
first  copy,  his  power  as  an  artist  was  not  so  consummate.  In  that  copy,  the  first  lines  of  the 
player-king  are  singularly  flowing  and  musical ;  and  their  sacrifice  shows  us  how  inexorable  was 
his  judgment : — 

"  Fiill  forty  years  are  pass'd,  their  date  is  gone. 
Since  happy  time  join'd  both  our  liearts  as  one ; 
And  now  the  blood  that  fill'd  my  youthful  veins 
Runs  weakly  in  tlieir  pipes,  and  all  the  strains 
Of  music,  which  whilome  pleased  mine  ear. 
Is  now  a  burtlien  tliat  age  cannot  bear." 

The  soliloquy  of  the  king  in  the  third  act  is  greatly  elaborated  from  the  first  copy ;  and  so  is 
the  scene  between  Hamlet  and  his  mother.  In  the  play,  as  we  now  have  it,  Shakspere  has  left  it 
doubtful  whether  the  queen  was  privy  to  the  miu-der  of  her  husband ;  but  in  this  scene,  in  the  first 
copy,  she  says, — 

"  But  as  I  have  a  soul,  I  swear  by  heaven, 
I  never  knew  of  this  most  horrid  murder." 

And  Hamlet,  upon  this  declaration,  says, — 


"  And,  mother,  but  assist  me  iu  revenge. 
And  in  his  death  your  infamy  shall  die." 


The  queen,  upon  this,  protests — 


"  I  wUl  conceal,  consent,  and  do  my  best, 
Wliat  stratagem  soe'er  thou  shalt  devise." 

In  the  amended  copy,  the  queen  merely  says, — 

"  Be  thou  assiwed  if  words  be  made  of  breath. 
And  breath  of  life,  I  have  no  life  to  breathe 
What  thou  hast  said  to  me." 

The  action  of  the  amended  copy,  for  the  present,  proceeds  as  in  the  first  copy.  Gertrude 
describes  the  death  of  Polonivis,  and  Hamlet  poin-s  forth  his  bitter  sarcasm  upon  the  king  : — "  Your 
fat  king  and  your  lean  beggar  are  but  variable  services."  Hamlet  is  dispatched  to  England. 
Fortinbras  and  his  forces  appear  upon  the  stage.  The  fine  scene  between  Hamlet  and  the  captain, 
and  Hamlet's  subsequent  soliloquy,  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  quarto  of  1603,  nor  in  the  folio.  The 
madness  of  Ophelia  is  beautifully  elaborated  in  the  amended  copy,  but  all  her  snatches  of  songs  are 
the  same  in  both  editions.  What  she  sings,  however,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  original  copy,  is  with 
gi'eat  art  transposed  to  the  second  scene  of  the  amended  one.  The  pathos  of — 
"  And  will  he  uot  come  again  ?" 

is  doubled,  as  it  now  stands,  by  the  presence  of  Laertes. 

We  are  now  arrived  at  a  scene  in  the  quarto  of  1603,  altogether  different  from  anything  we  find 
in  the  amended  copy.  It  is  a  short  scene  between  Horatio  and  the  queen,  in  which  Horatio 
relates  Hamlet's  return  to  Denmark,  and  describes  the  treason  which  the  king  had  plotted  against 
him,  as  well  as  the  mode  by  which  he  had  evaded  it,  by  the  sacrifice  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guilden- 
stern.     The  queen,  with  reference  to  the 

" subtle  treason  that  the  king  had  plotted." 

says,— 

"  Then  I  perceive  there's  treason  iu  his  looks 
That  seem'd  to  sugar  o'er  his  villainy  ; 
But  I  will  soothe  and  please  him  for  a  time. 
For  murderous  minds  are  always  jealous." 

This  is  decisive  as  to  Shakspere 's  original  intentions  with  regard  to  the  queen  ;  but  the  sup- 
pression of  the  scene  in  the  amended  copy  is  another  instance  of  his  admirable  judgment.  She  does 
not  redeem  her  guilt  by  entering  into  plots  against  her  guilty  husband  ;  and  it  is  far  more  charac- 
teristic of  the  irregular  impulses  of  Hamlet's  mind,  and  of  his  subjection  to  circumstances,  that  he 
should  have  no  confidences  with  his  mother,  and  form  with  her  and  Horatio  no  plans  of  revenge. 
The  story  of  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  is  told  in  six  lines  ; — 

91 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Queen.  "  But  what  became  of  GilJcrstono  ami  Uossencraft  ? 

Hur.  He  being  set  ashore,  they  went  for  England, 
And  in  the  packet  there  writ  down  that  doom 
To  be  perform' d  on  them  pointed  for  him  : 
And  by  great  cliance  he  liad  liis  father's  seal, 
So  all  was  done  without  discovery." 

The  expansion  of  this  simple  passage  into  the  exquisite  naiTative  of  Hamlet  to  Horatio  of  the  same 
circumstances,  presents,  to  our  minds,  a  most  remarkable  example  of  the  difference  between  the 
mature  and  the  youthful  intellect. 

The  scene  of  the  grave-digger,  in  the  original  copy,  has  all  the  great  points  of  the  present  scene. 
The  frenzy  of  Hamlet  at  the  grave  is  also  the  same.  Who  but  the  poet  himself  cotild  have  worked 
up  this  line — 

"  Anon,  as  mild  and  gentle  as  a  dove," 

into — 

"  Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove. 
When  that  lier  golden  couplets  are  disclos'd, 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping." 

The  scene  with  Osric  is  greatly  expanded  in  the  amended  copy.  The  catastrophe  appears  to  be 
the  same  ;  but  the  last  leaf  of  the  copy  of  1603  is  wanting. 


There  is  a  general  belief  that  some  play  under  the  title  of  Hamlet  had  preceded  the  Hamlet  of 
Shakspere.  Probable  as  this  may  be,  it  appears  to  us  that  this  belief  is  sometimes  asserted  too 
authoritatively.  Mr.  Collier,  whose  opinion  upon  such  matters  is  indeed  of  great  value,  constantly 
speaks  of  "The  old  Hamlet."  Mr.  Skottowe  is  more  imqualified  in  his  assertion  of  this  fact: — 
"  The  history  of  Hamlet  formed  the  subject  of  a  play  which  was  acted  previous  to  1589 ;  and 
arguing  from  the  general  course  of  Shakspere 's  mind,  that  play  influenced  him  during  the  com- 
position of  his  own  Hamlet.  But,  unfortunately,  the  old  play  is  lost."  In  a  very  useful  and 
accurate  work,  '  Lowndes's  Bibliographer's  Manual,'  we  are  told  in  express  terms  of  "  Kyd's  old  play 
of  Hamlet."  Mr.  Skottowe  and  Mr.  Lowndes  have  certainly  mistaken  conjecture  for  proof.  Not  a 
tittle  of  distinct  evidence  exists  to  show  that  there  was  any  other  play  of  Hamlet  but  that  of 
Shakspere ;  and  all  the  collateral  evidence  upon  which  it  is  inferred  that  an  earlier  play  of  Hamlet 
than  Shakspere's  did  exist,  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be  taken  to  prove  that  Shakspere's  original 
sketch  of  Hamlet  was  in  repute  at  an  earher  period  than  is  commonly  assigned  as  its  date.  This 
evidence  is  briefly  as  follows  : — 

1.  Dr.  Farmer,  in  his  '  Essay  on  the  Learning  of  Shakspere,'  first  brought  forward  a  passage  in 
'  An  Epistle  to  the  Gentlemen  Students  of  the  Two  Universities, '  by  Thomas  Nash,  prefixed  to 
Green's 'Arcadia,' which  he  considers  directed  "  very  plainly  at  Shakspere  in  particular."  It  is 
as  follows  : — "  It  is  a  common  practise  now-a-days,  among  a  sort  of  shifting  companions,  that  runne 
through  every  art,  and  thrive  by  none,  to  leave  the  trade  of  Novermt,  whereto  they  were  bom,  and 
l)U3ie  themselves  with  the  endevors  of  art,  that  could  scarcely  latinize  their  neck-verse  if  they 
should  have  neede  ;  yet  English  Seneca,  reade  by  candle-light,  yields  many  good  sentences,  as 
Blond  is  a  beggar,  and  so  forth  :  and,  if  you  intreat  him  farre  in  a  frosty  morning,  he  will  affoord 
you  whole  Hamlets,  I  should  say,  handfuls,  of  tragical  speeches."  Farmer  adds,  "I  cannot 
determine  exactly  when  this  epistle  was  first  published,  but  I  fjincy  it  would  carry  the  original 
Hamlet  somewhat  further  back  than  we  have  hitherto  done."  Malone  found  that  this  epistle  was 
first  published  in  1589  ;  and  he,  therefore,  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  allusion  was  not  to 
Shakspere's  drama,  conjectiu-ing  that  the  Hamlet  just  mentioned  might  have  been  written  by  Kyd. 
Mr.  Brown,  in  his  ingenious  work  on  Shakspere's  Sonnets,  contends  that  the  passage  applies 
distinctly  to  Shakspere  ; — that  the  expression,  "  the  trade  of  Noverint,"  had  reference  to  some  one 
who  had  been  a  lawyer's  clerk ; — and  that  the  technical  use  of  law  phrases  by  Shakspere  proves 
that  his  early  life  had  been  so  employed.  We  have  then  only  the  difficidty  of  believing  that  the 
original  sketch  of  Hamlet  was  written  in,  or  before,  the  year  1589.  Mr.  Brown  leaps  over  the  diffi- 
culty, and  boldly  assigns  this  sketch,  as  published  in  the  quarto  of  1603,  to  the  year  1589.  We 
see  nothing  extravagant  in  this  belief.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  in  that  very  year,  when  Shakspere 
was  twenty-five,  it  has  been  distinctly  proved  by  Mr.  Collier  that  he  was  a  sharer  in  the  Black- 
friars  Theatre,  with  others,  and  some  of  note,  below  him  in  the  list  of  sharers. 
92 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

2.  In  the  accounts  found  at  Dulvvich  College,  which  were  kept  hy  Ilenslowe,  an  actor  contem- 
porary with  Shakspere,  we  find  the  following  entry  as  connected  with  the  theatre  at  Newington 
Butts  :— 

"  9  of  June  1594,  at  hamlet         ....         viii  s." 

The  eight  shillings  constituted  Henslowe's  share  of  the  profits  of  this  representation.  Malonc 
says,  that  this  is  a  full  confirmation  that  there  was  a  play  on  the  suhject  of  Hamlet  prior  to 
Shakspere's ;  for  "  it  cannot  be  supposed  that  oiu-  poet's  play  should  have  been  performed  but  once 
in  the  time  of  this  account,  and  that  Mr.  Henslowe  should  have  drawn  from  such  a  piece  but  the 
sum  of  eight  shillings,  when  his  share  in  several  other  plays  caiue  to  three  and  sometimes  foiu- 
pounds."  We  cannot  go  along  with  this  reasoning.  Henslowe's  accounts  are  thus  headed  : — "  In 
the  name  of  God,  Amen,  beginning  at  Newington,  my  lord  admirell  men,  and  luy  lord  chamberlen 
men,  as  followeth,  1594."  Now,  "  my  lord  chamberlen"  men  were  the  company  to  which  Shakspere 
belonged  ;  and  we  find  from  Mr.  Collier  that  one  of  their  theatres,  the  Globe,  was  erected  in  the 
spring  of  1594.  That  theatre  was  wholly  of  wood,  according  to  Hentzner's  description  of  it ;  it 
would,  therefore,  be  quickly  erected ;  and  it  is  extremely  probable  that  Shakspere's  company  only 
used  the  theatre  at  Newington  Butts  for  a  very  short  period,  during  the  completion  of  their  own 
theatre,  which  was  devoted  to  summer  performances.  We  can  find  nothing  in  Malone's  argument 
to  prove  that  it  was  not  Shakspere's  Hamlet  which  was  acted  by  Shakspere's  company  on  the  9tli 
of  June,  1594.  On  the  previous  16th  of  May  Henslowe's  accounts  are  headed,  "by  my  lord 
admirell's  men  ;  "  and  it  is  only  on  the  3rd  of  June  that  we  find  the  "  lord  chamberlen  men,"  as 
well  as  the  "lord  admirell  men,"  performing  at  this  theatre.  Their  occupation  of  it  might  have 
been  very  temporary ;  and  daring  that  occupation,  Shakspere's  Hamlet  might  have  been  once 
performed.  The  very  next  entiy,  the  11th  of  June,  is,  "at  the  taminge  of  a  shrewe ; "  and 
Malone,  in  a  note,  adds,  "  the  play  which  preceded  Shakspere's."  When  Malone  wrote  this  note 
he  believed  that  Shakspere's  "Taming  of  the  Shrew"  was  a  late  production;  but  in  the  second 
edition  of  his  '  Chronological  Order,'  he  is  persuaded  that  it  was  one  of  his  very  early  productions. 
Thei'e  is  nothing  to  prove  that  both  these  plays  thus  acted  were  not  Shakspere's. 

3.  In  a  tract  entitled  '  Wit's  Miserie,  or  the  World's  Madnesse,'  by  Thomas  Lodge,  printed  in 
1596,  one  of  the  devils  is  said  to  be  "a  foul  lubber,  and  looks  as  pale  as  the  vizard  of  the  ghost, 
who  cried  so  miserably  at  the  theatre,  Hamlet,  revenge."  In  the  first  edition  of  Malone's  '  Chro- 
nological Order,'  he  says,  "If  the  allusion  was  to  our  author's  tragedy,  this  passage  will  ascertain 
its  appearance  in  or  before  1596  ;  but  Lodge  may  have  had  the  elder  play  in  his  contemplation."  In 
the  second  edition  of  this  essay,  Malone  changes  his  opinion,  and  says,  "  Lodge  must  have  had  the 
elder  play  in  his  contemplation." 

4.  Steevens,  in  his  Preliminary  Remarks  to  Hamlet,  has  this  passage : — "  I  have  seen  a  copy  of 
Speght's  edition  of  Chaucer,  which  formerly  belonged  to  Dr.  Gabriel  Harvey  (the  antagonist  of 
Nash),  who,  in  his  own  handwriting,  has  set  down  Hamlet  as  a  performance  with  which  he  was 
well  acquainted,  in  the  year  1598."  Malone  considered  this  decisive  in  the  first  edition  of  his 
'  Chronological  Order,'  but  in  the  second  edition,  having  seen  the  book,  he  persuaded  himself  that 
the  date  1598  referred  to  the  time  when  Harvey  pm-chased  it;  and  he  therefore  rejects  the 
evidence.  He  then  peremptorily  fixes  the  first  appearance  of  Hamlet  in  1600,  from  the  reference 
that  is  made  in  it  to  the  "  inhibition"  of  the  players.  We  shall  speak  of  this  presently.  In  the 
mean  time  it  may  be  sufficient  to  remark,  that  the  passage  is  not  found  in  the  first  quarto  of  1603, 
of  the  existence  of  which  Malone  was  uninformed ;  and  that,  therefore,  this  proof  goes  for  nothing. 

And  now,  leaving  our  readers  to  form  their  own  judgment  upon  the  external  evidence  as  to  the 
date  of  Hamlet,  we  nmst  express  our  decided  opinion,  grounded  upon  an  attentive  comparison  of 
the  original  sketch  with  the  perfect  play,  that  the  original  sketch  was  an  early  production  of  our 
poet.  The  copy  of  1603  is  no  doubt  piratical;  it  is  unquestionably  very  imperfectly  printed.  But 
if  the  passage  about  the  "  inhibition  "  of  the  players  fixes  the  date  of  the  perfect  play  as  1600,  which 
we  believe  it  does,  the  essential  differences  between  the  sketch  and  the  perfect  play — diflferences 
which  do  not  depend  upon  the  corruption  of  a  text — can  only  be  accounted  for  upon  the  belief  that 
there  was  a  considerable  interval  between  the  production  of  the  first  and  second  copy,  in  which  the 
author's  power  and  judgment  had  become  mature,  and  his  peculiar  habits  of  philosophical  thought 
had  been  completely  established.  This  is  a  matter  which  does  not  admit  of  proof  within  om-  limited 
space;  but  the  passages  which  we  have  already  given  from  the  original  copy  do  something  to  prove 

Tragedies. — Vol.  I.    O  93 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

it,  and  we  have  other  differences  of  the  same  character  to  point  ovit,  which  we  shall  do  as  briefly  as 
possible. 

Mr.  Hallam  (in  his  admirable  work,  just  completed,  the  '  Introduction  to  the  Literature  of 
Europe,' — which,  without  doxibt,  is  the  most  comprehensive  and  elegant  contribution  to  Literary 
History  and  Criticism  that  our  language  possesses),  speaking  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  as  an  early 
production  of  our  poet,  points  out  as  a  proof  of  this,  "  the  want  of  that  thoughtful  philosophy, 
which,  when  once  it  had  germinated  in  Shakspere's  mind,  never  ceased  to  display  itself."*  Hamlet, 
as  it  now  stands,  is  full  of  this  "  thoughtful  philosophy."  But  the  original  sketch,  as  given  in  the 
quarto  of  1603,  exhibits  few  traces  of  it  in  the  form  of  didactic  observations.  The  whole  dramatic 
conduct  of  the  action  is  indeed  demonstrative  of  a  philosophical  conception  of  incidents  and 
characters;  but  in  the  form  to  which  Mr.  Hallam  refers,  the  "  thoughtful  philosophy"  is  almost 
entirely  wanting  in  that  sketch.  We  must  indicate  a  few  examples  very  briefly,  of  passages  illus- 
trating this  position,  which  are  not  there  found,  requesting  our  readers  to  refer  to  the  text : — 
Act   I.,    Sc.  3.  "  For  nature,  crescent,"  &c. 

4.  "This  heavy-headed  revel,"  &c. 

,,    II.      „     2.  "  There  is  nothing,  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so,"  &c. 

"  I  coidd  be  bounded  in  a  nut-shell,"  &c. 
,,  III.      „     4.  "  Bring  me  to  the  test,  and  I  the  matter  will  re-word,"  &c. 
„  IV.      ,,     3.  "  I  see  a  cherub,  &c. 

5.  "  Nature  is  fine  in  love,"  &c. 
„    V.      ,,     2.   "  There's  a  divinity,"  &c. 

Further,  Mr.  Hallam  observes,  "  There  seems  to  have  been  a  period  of  Shakspere's  life  when  his 
heart  was  ill  at  ease,  and  ill  content  with  the  world  or  his  own  conscience  :  the  memory  of  hours 
mis-spent,  the  pang  of  affection  misplaced  or  vmrequited,  the  experience  of  man's  worser  nature, 
which  intercourse  with  ill-chosen  associates,  by  choice  or  circumstance,  peculiai-ly  teaches, — these, 
as  they  sank  down  into  the  depths  of  his  great  mind,  seem  not  only  to  have  inspired  into  it  the 
conception  of  Lear  and  Timon,  but  that  of  one  primary  character,  the  censurer  of  mankind."  The 
type,  Mr.  Hallam  proceeds  to  say,  is  first  seen  in  Jaques, — then  in  the  exiled  duke  of  the  same 
play, — and  in  the  duke  of  Measure  for  Measure ;  but  in  these  in  the  shape  of  "  merely  contem- 
plative philosophy."  "  In  Hamlet  this  is  mingled  with  the  impulses  of  a  perturbed  heart,  under  the 
pressure  of  extraordinary  circumstances."  These  plays,  Mr.  Hallam  points  out,  all  belong  to  the 
same  period — the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century :  he  is  speaking  of  the  Hamlet,  "  in  its 
altered  form."  If  this  type,  then,  be  not  foimd  in  the  Hamlet  of  the  original  sketch,  we  may  refer 
that  sketch  to  an  earlier  period.  It  is  remarkable  that  in  this  sketch  the  misanthropy,  if  so  it  may 
be  called,  of  Hamlet,  can  scarcely  be  traced ;  his  feelings  have  altogether  reference  to  his  personal 
griefs  and  doubts.  Mr.  Hallam  says,  that  in  the  plays  subsequent  to  these  mentioned  above,  "much 
of  moral  speculation  will  be  found ;  but  he  has  never  returned  to  this  type  of  character  in  the 
personages."  f  The  first  Hamlet  was,  we  think,  written  at  a  period  when  this  "bitter  remem- 
brance," whatever  it  was,  had  no  place  in  his  heart ;  the  later  plays  when  it  had  been  obliterated 
by  a  more  expansive  philosophy — when  the  intellect  had  triumphed  over  the  passions.  We  shall 
give  a  few  examples,  as  in  the  case  of  the  "  thoughtful  philosophy,"  of  the  absence  in  the  first 
sketch  of  the  passages  which  indicate  the  existence  of  the  morbid  feelings  to  which  Mr.  Hallam 
alludes : — 

Act   I.,  Sc.    2.  "  How  weary,  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable,"  &c. 
,,    II.      ,,     2.  "  Denmark's  a  prison,"  &c. 

"  I  have  of  late  (but  wherefore  I  know  not)  lost  all  my  mirth,"  &c. 
,,  III.      „     1.  The  soliloquy.     All  that  appears  in  the  pei-fect  copy  as  the  outpouring  of  a 
wounded  spirit,  such  as  "  the  pangs  of  dispriz'd  love," — "  the  insolence 
of  office," — "the  spui-ns  that  patient  merit  of  the  imworthy  takes," — are 
generalized  in  the  quarto  of  1603,  as  follows: — 
"  Wlio'd  bear  tlie  scorns  and  flattery  of  the  world, — 
Scorn'd  by  the  rich,  the  rich  curs'd  of  the  poor. 
The  widow  being  oppress'd,  the  orplian  wrong'd. 
The  taste  of  hunger,  or  a  tyiant's  reign. 
And  thousand  more  calamities  beside  r " 
*  Vol.  II.,  p.  390.  +  Vol.  III.,  p.  568  and  569. 

94 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

Act   v.,  Sc.    2.  "  Absent  tliee  from  felicity  awhile, 

And  in  this  hai'sh  world  draw  thy  breath  of  pain." 

We  could  multiply  examples ;  but  those  we  have  given  are  sufficient,  we  think,  to  show  that  we 
have  internal  evidence  that  the  original  sketch,  and  the  augmented  and  perfect  copy  of  Hamlet, 
were  written  under  different  influences  and  habits  of  thought.  But  there  are  differences  between 
the  first  and  second  copies  which  address  themselves  more  distinctly  to  the  understanding,  in 
corroboration  of  om-  opinion  that  there  was  a  considerable  interval  between  the  production  of  the 
sketch  and  the  perfect  play. 

We  will  first  take  the  passage  relating  to  the  "  tragedians  of  the  city,"  placing  the  text  of  the 
first  and  second  quartos  in  apposition  : — 

[Quarto  of  1603.]  [Quarto  of  1604.] 

"Ham.  Players,  wliat  players  be  they  ?  "Ham.  Wliat  players  are  they  ? 

Ros.  My  lord,  the  tragedians  of  the  city,  those  that  you  Rus.  Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take  such  delight  in,  the 

took  delight  to  see  so  often.  trafiedians  of  the  city. 

Ham.  How  comes  it  that  they  travel  ?  Do  they  grow  restie?  Ham.  How  chauces  it  they  travel  ?  their  residence,  both  in 

Gil.  No,  my  lord,  their  reputation  holds  as  it  was  wont.  reputation  and  profit,  was  better  both  ways. 

Ham.  How  then?  Rijx.    I  think  their  inhibition  comes  by  the  means  of  the 

Gil.  Yfaith,  my  lord,  novelty  carries  it  away ;  for  the  prin-  late  innovation, 

cipal  public  audience  that  came  to  them  are  turned  to  private  Ham.  Do  they  hold  the  same  estimation  they  did  when  I 

plays,  and  to  the  humour  of  children."  was  in  the  city  ?  are  they  so  followed  ? 

Ras.  No,  indeed,  are  they  not." 

We  thus  see  that  in  the  original  play  the  "tragedians  of  the  city,"  by  which  are  unquestionably 
meant  certain  players  of  Shakspere's  own  day,  were  not  adequately  rewarded,  because  the  public 
audience  "  turned  to  private  plays,  and  to  the  humour  of  children."  On  the  contrary,  in  the  aug- 
mented play,  published  in  the  following  year,  they  were  not  so  followed — they  were  inhibited  in 
consequence  of  a  late  innovation.  The  words  "inhibition,"  and  "innovation,"  point  to  some 
public  proceeding;  "novelty,"  on  the  other  hand,  "private  plays,"  and  "the  humour  of  children," 
would  seem  to  have  reference  to  some  popular  caprice.  "The  humoxir  of  children,"  in  the  first 
copy,  points  to  a  period  when  plays  were  acted  by  children ;  when  the  novelty  of  such  perfonn- 
ances,  diminishing  the  attractions  of  the  tragedians  of  the  city,  compelled  them  to  travel.  The 
children  of  Paid's  represented  plays  in  their  singing  school  before  Shakspere  became  a  writer  for 
the  stage.  Several  of  Lyly's  pieces  were  presented  by  them  subsequent  to  1584,  according  to  Mr. 
Collier;  but  in  1591  we  find  these  performances  suppressed.  In  the  address  of  the  printer 
before  Lyly's  'Endymion,'  published  in  1591,  the  suppression  is  mentioned  as  a  recent  event: — 
"  Since  the  plays  in  Paul's  were  dissolved,  there  are  certain  comedies  come  to  my  hand."  In  1596 
the  interdict  was  not  taken  off;  for  Nash,  in  his  'Have  with  you  to  Saffron  Waldon,'  printed  in 
that  year,  wishes  to  see  the  "  plays  at  Paul's  up  again."  But  in  1600,  we  find  a  private  play,  at- 
tributed to  Lyly,  "acted  by  the  children  of  Powles."  In  'Jack  Drmn's  Entertainment,'  1601,  we 
find  the  performances  of  these  children  described,  with  the  observation,  "  The  apes  in  time  will 
do  it  handsomely."  The  audience  is  mentioned  as  a  "good  gentle  audience."  Our  belief,  founded 
upon  this  passage,  is,  that  the  first  copy  of  1603  refers  to  the  period  before  1591,  when  "the  humom* 
of  children"  prevailed;  and  that  the  "innovation"  mentioned  in  the  second  copy,  refers  to  the 
removal  of  the  interdict,  which  removal  occasioned  the  revival  of  plays  at  Paul's,  about  1600.  In 
that  year  came  the  "  inhibition."  On  the  22nd  of  June,  1600,  an  order  of  the  Privy  Council  ap- 
peared, "  for  the  restraint  of  the  immoderate  use  of  play-houses;"  and  it  is  here  prescribed  "  that 
there  shall  be  about  the  city  two  houses  and  no  more  allowed,  to  serve  for  the  use  of  the  common 
stage  plays."  No  restraint  was,  however,  laid  upon  the  children  of  Paid's.  It  appears  to  us, 
therefore,  that  the  inhibition  and  innovation  are  distinctly  connected  in  Shakspere's  mind.  The 
passage  is  to  us  decisive,  as  fixing  the  date  of  the  augmented  play  about  1600;  as  it  is  equally  clear 
to  us  that  the  passage  of  the  first  copy  has  reference  to  an  earlier  period.  The  text,  as  we  now 
have  it, — "  There  is.  Sir,  an  ayrie  of  children,"  who  "  so  berattle  the  common  stages," — belongs 
to  a  later  period,  when  the  children  of  Paul's  acted  the  plays  of  Marston,  Dekker,  and  other  writers 
of  repute;  and  the  Blackfriars'  Theatre  was  in  the  possession  of  a  company  of  boys.  In  1612,  the 
performances  of  children  had  been  made  the  vehicle  for  scurrility,  and  they  were  again  suppressed. 
(See  Mr.  Colher's  '  Annals  of  the  Stage,'  Vol.  I.,  pp.  279,  282;  and  Malone's  'Historical  Account 
of  the  English  Stage,'  Boswell's  edition,  pp.  62  and  453.) 
The  speech  from  the  play  that  was  "  never  acted,  or  not  above  once,"' — that  "  pleased  not   the 

95 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

million," — is  found,  with  very  slight  alteration,  in  the  quarto  of  1603;  and  so  is  Hamlet's  commen- 
dation of  it.  We  agree  with  Coleridge,  that  "  the  fancy  that  a  burlesque  was  intended  sinks  below 
criticism."  Warburton  expressed  the  same  opinion,  in  opposition  to  Dryden  and  Pope.  Coleridge 
very  justly  says,  that  the  diction  of  these  lines  was  avxthorized  by  the  actual  style  of  the  tragedies 
before  Shakspere's  time.  Ritson,  we  think,  has  hit  the  truth:  "  It  appears  to  me  not  only  that 
Shakspere  had  the  favourable  opinion  of  these  lines  which  he  makes  Hamlet  express,  but  that  they 
were  extracted  from  some  play  which  he,  at  a  more  eai-ly  period,  had  either  produced  or  projected, 
upon  the  story  of  Dido  and  iEneas.  The  verses  recited  are  far  superior  to  those  of  any  coeval 
writer:  the  parallel  passage  in  Marlowe  and  Nash's  Dido  will  not  bear  the  comparison.  Possibly, 
indeed,  it  might  have  been  his  first  attempt,  before  the  divinity  that  lodged  within  him  had  in- 
structed him  to  despise  the  tmnid  and  unnatural  style  so  much  and  so  unjustly  admired  in  his  pre- 
decessors or  contemporaries."  The  introduction  of  these  lines,  we  think,  cannot  be  accounted  for 
upon  any  other  supposition,  but  that  they  were  written  by  Shakspere  himself;  and  he  is  so 
thoroughly  in  earnest  in  his  criticism  upon  the  play,  and  his  complaint  of  its  want  of  success  is  so 
ajjparently  sincere,  that  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  that  the  passage  had  reference  to  something 
non-existent.  But  woidd  Shakspere,  then,  have  produced  such  a  play,  except  in  his  very  early 
career,  before  he  understood  his  own  peculiar  powers  ? — and  would  he  have  written  so  sensitively 
about  it,  except  under  the  immediate  influence  of  the  disappointment  occasioned  by  its  failure? 
The  dates  of  the  first  copy  of  Hamlet,  and  of  the  play  which  contained  the  description  of  "  Priam's 
slaughter,"  are  certainly  not  far  removed. 

Lastly,  we  are  of  opinion  that  the  directions  to  the  players,  especially  as  given  in  the  first  copy, 
point  to  a  state  of  the  stage  anterior  to  the  period  when  Shakspere  had  himself  reformed  it.  The 
mention  of  "Termagant"  and  "  Herod"  has  reference  to  the  time  when  these  character  possessed 
the  stage  in  pageants  and  mysteries.  Again,  the  reproof  of  the  extemporal  clowns, — the  injunction 
that  they  should  speak  no  more  than  is  set  down  for  them, — applied  to  the  infancy  of  the  stage. 
Shakspere  had  reformed  the  clowns  before  the  date  usually  assigned  to  Hamlet.  In  a  book,  called 
'  Tarleton's  Jeasts,'  published  in  1611,  we  have  some  specimens  of  the  license  which  this  pi-ince 
of  clowns  was  wont  to  take.  The  author,  however,  adds,  "  But  woidd  I  see  oiu-  clowns  in  these 
days  do  the  like?  No,  I  wan-ant  ye."  In  the  original  copy  of  Hamlet,  the  reproof  of  the  clowns 
is  more  diffiise  than  in  the  augmented  copy ;  and  the  following  passage  distinctly  shows  one  of  the 
evils  which  Shakspere  had  to  contend  with,  and  which  he  probably  had  overcome  before  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  century  : — "And  then  you  have  some  again  that  keeps  one  smt  of  jests,  as  a  man  is 
known  by  one  suit  of  apparel;  and  gentlemen  quote  his  jests  down  in  their  tables  before  they 
come  to  the  play,  as  thus :  Cannot  you  stay  till  I  eat  my  porridge  ?  and,  you  owe  me  a  quarter's 
wages;  and,  my  coat  wants  acidlison;  and,  your  beer  is  sour;  and,  blabbering  with  his  lips,  and 
thus  keeping  in  his  cinkapase  of  jests,  when,  God  knows,  the  warm  clown  cannot  make  a  jest  unless 
by  chance,  as  the  blind  man  catcheth  a  hare:  Masters,  tell  him  of  it."  The  additions  to  these  di- 
rections to  the  players,  in  the  augmented  cojiy,  are,  on  the  other  hand,  such  as  bespeak  a  con- 
sciousness of  the  elevation  which  the  stage  had  attained  in  its  "  high  and  palmy  state,"  a  little  be- 
fore the  death  of  Elizabeth,  when  its  piu'pose,  as  realised  by  Shakspere  and  Jonson  especially,  was 
"  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  nature;  to  show  virtue  her  own  feature,  scorn  her  own  image, 
and  the  very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure." 


Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 


The  history  of  Hamlet,  or  Hamleth,  is  found  in  the  Danish  historian,  Saxo  Grammaticus,  who 
died  about  1204.  The  works  of  Saxo  Grammaticus  are  in  Latin,  and  in  Shakspere's  time  had  not 
been  translated  into  any  modern  language.  It  was  inferred,  therefore,  by  Dr.  Grey,  and  Mr. 
Whalley,  that  Shakspere  must  have  read  the  original.  The  story,  however,  is  to  be  found  in  Belle- 
forest's  collection  of  novels,  begun  in  1564;  and  an  English  translation  of  this  particular  story  was 
published  as  a  quarto  tract,  entitled  '  The  Hystorie  of  Hamblet,  Prince  of  Denmarke.'  Capell, 
in  his  '  School  of  Shakspere,'  has  given  some  extracts  from  an  edition  of  this  very  rare  book, 
dated  1608  ;  but  he  conjectures  that  it  first  appeared  about  1570.  He  has  also  printed  the  heads 
of  chapters  as  they  are  given  in  this  '  History.'  Horvendile  is  here  the  name  of  Hamlet's  father, 
Fengon  that  of  his  uncle,  and  Geruth  that  of  his  mother.  Fcngon  traitorously  slays  Horvendile, 
96 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

and  marries  his  brother's  wife.  In  the  second  chapter  we  are  informed,  "  how  Hamlet  counter- 
feited the  madman,  to  escape  the  tyranny  of  his  uncle,  and  how  he  was  tempted  by  a  woman 
(through  his  uncle's  procurement),  who  thereby  thought  to  undennine  the  Prince,  and  by  that 
means  to  find  out  whether  he  counterfeited  madness  or  not."  In  the  third  chapter  we  learn, 
"  how  Fengon,  uncle  to  Hamlet,  a  second  time  to  entrap  him  in  his  politic  madness,  caused  one 
of  his  councillors  to  be  secretly  hidden  in  the  Queen's  chamber,  behind  the  arras,  to  hear  what 
speeches  past  between  Hamlet  and  the  Queen ;  and  how  Hamlet  killed  him,  and  escaped  that 
danger,  and  what  followed."  It  is  in  this  part  of  the  action  that  Shakspere's  use  of  this  book  may 
be  distinctly  traced.  Capell  says,  "  Amidst  this  resemblance  of  persons  and  circumstances,  it  is 
rather  strange  that  none  of  the  relator's  expressions  have  got  into  the  play :  and  yet  not  one  of 
them  is  to  be  found,  except  the  following,  in  Chapter  III.,  where  Hamlet  kills  the  counsellor  (who 
is  described  as  of  a  greater  reach  than  the  rest,  and  is  the  Poet's  Polonius)  behind  the  arras :  here, 
beating  the  hangings,  and  perceiving  something  to  stir  mider  them,  he  is  made  to  cry  out — '  a 
rat,  a  rat,'  and  presently  drawing  his  sword  thrust  it  into  the  hangings,  which  done,  pidled  the 
counsellor  (half  dead)  out  by  the  heels,  made  an  end  of  killing  him."  In  the  fourth  chapter 
Hamlet  is  sent  to  England  by  Fengon,  "  with  secret  letters  to  have  him  put  to  death;  "  and  while 
his  companions  slept,  Hamlet  counterfeits  the  letters  "  willing  the  King  of  England  to  put  the  two 
messengers  to  death."  Here  ends  the  resemblance  between  the  history  and  the  play.  The  Hamlet 
of  the  history  returns  to  Denmark,  slays  his  imcle,  burns  his  palace,  makes  an  oration  to  the 
Danes,  and  is  elected  king.  His  subsequent  adventures  are  rather  extravagant.  He  goes  back  to 
England,  kills  the  king  of  that  covmtry,  returns  to  Denmark  with  two  English  wives,  and,  finally, 
falls  himself  through  the  treachery  of  one  of  these  ladies. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  how  little  these  rude  materials  have  assisted  Shakspere  in 
the  composition  of  the  great  tragedy  of  Hamlet.  He  found,  in  the  records  of  a  barbarous  period, 
a  tale  of  adultery  and  murder  and  revenge.  Here,  too,  was  a  rude  indication  of  the  character  of 
Hamlet.  But  what  he  has  given  us  is  so  essentially  a  creation  from  first  to  last,  that  it  woiUd  be 
only  tedious  to  point  out  the  lesser  resemblances  between  the  drama  and  the  history.  That  Shak- 
spere adopted  the  period  of  the  action  as  related  by  Saxo  Grammaticus,  thei'e  can  be  no  doubt. 
The  following  passage  is  decisive  : — 

"  And,  England,  if  my  love  thou  hold'st  at  aught, 
(As  my  gieat  power  thereof  may  give  thee  sense ; 
Since  yet  thy  cicatrice  looks  raw  and  red 
After  the  Danish  sword,  and  thy  free  awe 
Pays  homage  to  us)  thou  may'st  not  coldly  set 
Our  sovereign  process." 

We  have  here  a  distinct  indication  of  the  period  before  the  Norman  Conquest,  when  England  was 
either  imder  the  sovereignty  of  the  Northmen,  as  in  the  time  of  Canute,  or  paid  tribute  to  the 
Danish  power. 


Scenes. 

The  local  illusti-ations  which  we  have  given  of  this  play  are  from  original  sketches  made  by  Mr. 
G.  F.  Sargent.  Those  of  buildings,  have,  of  course,  no  association  with  the  period  of  the  action. 
But  they  possess  an  interest ;  being  in  some  degree  connected  with  the  supposed  scenes  of  Hamlet's 
history,  and  with  the  popiUar  traditions  which  have  most  likely  sprimg  from  the  European  reputa- 
tion of  Shakspere's  Hamlet.  For  example,  we  have  this  passage  in  Coxe's  Travels :  "  Adjoining 
to  a  royal  palace,  which  stands  about  half  a  mile  from  Kronborg,  is  a  garden  which  curiosity  led 
us  to  visit;  it  is  called  Hamlet's  Garden,  and  is  said,  by  tradition,  to  be  the  very  spot  where  the 
miu-der  of  his  father  was  perpetrated."  The  vignette  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  act  shows  a  sequestered 
part  of  this  garden,  which  is  called  "  Hamlet's  Grave."  Mr.  Inglis,  in  an  agreeable  volume  pub- 
lished in  Constable's  Miscellany,  describes  his  anxiety  to  see  this  garden,  upon  the  evening  of  his 
arrival  at  Elsinore.  "The  centinel,"  he  says,  "to  whom  I  addressed  myself,  laid  aside  his  musket, 
and  himself  conducted  me  to  the  enclosure."  The  Castle  of  Kronborg,  or  Kronenburgh,  in  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  of  Elsinore,  is  a  fortification  which  is  invariably  associated  with  Shakspere's 
Hamlet.  Mr.  Inglis  learnt  that  very  few  travellers  visited  Elsinore ;  but  that  "  occasionally  pas- 
sengers in  English  vessels  which  happened  to  be  lying-to,  and  sometimes  also  passengers  in  French 

97 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

vessels,  landed  at  the  castle,  owing  to  its  connexion  with  Hamlet  and  Shakspere."  A  Danish 
translation  of  Hamlet,  he  learnt,  was  often  acted  at  Elsinore.  We  present,  therefore,  to  om-  readers 
what  the  few  passengers  who  visit  Elsinore  land  to  see,  walking  up  to  the  castle,  as  Mr.  Inglis  did, 
thinking  all  the  way  "  of  Hamlet  and  Ophelia,  and  the  murdered  King."  The  engraving  at  the 
head  of  Act  I.  is  a  view  of  the  platform  at  the  Castle  of  Kronborg ;  that  at  the  head  of  Act  III. 
the  Palace  of  Kronborg,  within  the  fortifications.  We  have  also  given  a  general  view  of  Elsinore ; 
and  a  view  of  an  old  church  and  churchyard  there.  The  view  of  the  Palace  of  Rosenberg,  which  is 
at  Copenhagen,  is  introduced  to  exhibit  the  residence  of  a  Danish  noble  in  the  time  of  Shakspere. 


[Canute  and  his  Wife.] 

Costume. 

It  has  been  conjectured,  and  with  sufficient  reason,  by  Mr.  Strutt  and  other  writers  on  the 
subject  of  costume,  that  the  dress  of  the  Danes  diu-ing  the  tenth  and  eleventh  centin-ies  differed  little, 
if  anything,  in  shape  from  that  of  the  Anglo-Saxons ;  and  althovigh  from  several  scattered  passages 
in  the  works  of  the  Welsh  bards  and  in  the  old  Danish  ballads,  we  gather  that  black  was  a  favourite 
colour,  we  are  expressly  told  by  Arnold  of  Lubeck,  that  at  the  time  he  wi'ote  (circa  1127),  they  had 
become  "  wearers  of  scarlet,  purple  and  fine  linen  ;  "  and  by  Wallingford,  who  died  in  1214,  that 
"  the  Danes  were  effeminately  gay  in  their  dress,  combed  their  hair  once  a  day,  bathed  once  a 
week,  and  often  changed  their  attire."  Of  their  pride  in  their  long  hair,  and  of  the  care  they  took 
of  it,  several  anecdotes  have  been  preserved.  Harold  Harfagre,  i.  e.  Fairlocks,  derived  his  name 
from  the  beauty  of  his  long-flowing  ringlets,  which  are  said  to  have  hung  down  to  his  girdle,  and  to 
have  been  like  silken  or  golden  threads :  and  these  precious  curls  he  made  a  vow  to  his  mistress  to 
neglect  till  he  had  completed  the  conquest  of  Norway  for  her  love.  *  A  young  Danish  warrior 
going  to  be  beheaded  begged  of  an  executioner  that  his  hair  might  not  be  touched  by  a  slave,  or 
stained  with  his  blood,  f     In  the  Anglo-Saxon  poem  of  Beowulf,  we  find — 

"  The  long-haued  one,  illustrious  in  battle. 
The  bright  lord  of  the  Danes :" 

and  the  Knyghtlinga  Saga  describes  Canute's  hair  as  profuse. 

In  a  MS.  register  of  Hide  Abbey,  written  in  the  time  of  Canute,  that  monarch  is  represented  in  a 
tunic  and  mantle,  the  latter  fastened  with  cords  or  ribands,  and  tassels.  He  wears  shoes  and 
stockings  reaching  nearly  to  the  knees,  with  embroidered  tops,  or  it  may  be  chausses  or  pantaloons, 
with  an  embroidered  band  beneath  the  knee ;  for  the  drawing  being  uncoloured  leaves  the  matter 


98 


*  Torfaius,  Hist.  Nor. 


t  Jomawinkinga  Saaa  in  Bartholimis. 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

in  doubt.  When  Canute's  body  was  examined  at  Winchester  in  176G,  it  was  adorned  with  several 
gold  and  silver  bands,  and  a  wreath  or  circlet  was  round  the  head.  A  jewelled  ring  was  upon  one 
finger,  and  in  one  of  his  hands  a  silver  penny.*  Bracelets  of  massive  gold  were  worn  by  all 
persons  of  rank,  and  their  most  sacred  oath  before  their  conversion  to  Christianity  was  by  their 
"  holy  bracelet;"  a  sacred  ornament  of  this  kind  being  kept  on  the  altars  of  their  gods,  or  worn 
round  the  arm  of  the  priest.  Scarlet  was  the  colour  originally  worn  by  the  kings,  queens,  and 
princes  of  Denmark.  In  the  ballad  of  Childe  Axelvold  we  find  that  as  soon  as  the  young  man 
discovered  himself  to  be  of  royal  race,  he  "put  on  the  scarlet  red ;  "  and  in  the  ballad  of  "  Hero 
Hogen  and  the  Queen  of  Danmarck,"  the  queen  is  said  to  have  rode  first  "  in  i-ed  scarlet,"  the  word 
red  being  used  in  both  these  instances  to  distinguish  the  peculiar  sort  of  scarlets,  as  in  those  times 
scarlet,  like  purple,  was  used  to  express  any  gradation  of  colour  formed  by  red  and  blue,  from  indigo 
to  crimson.  It  thus  happens,  curiously  enough,  that  the  objections  of  the  Queen  and  Claudius  to 
the  appearance  of  Hamlet  in  black,  are  authorized,  not  only  by  the  well-known  custom  of  the  early 
Danes,  never  to  mourn  for  their  nearest  and  dearest  relatives  or  friends,  but  also  by  the  fact,  that, 
although  black  was  at  least  their  favourite,  f  if  not,  indeed,  their  national  colour,  Hamlet,  as  a 
prince  of  the  blood,  should  have  been  attired  in  the  royal  scarlet.  Of  the  armoiu-  of  the  Danes  at  the 
close  of  the  tenth  century  we  have  several  verbal  descriptions.  By  the  laws  of  Gula,  said  to  have 
been  established  by  Hacon  the  Good,  who  died  in  963,  it  is  ordered  that  every  possessor  of  six 
marks  should  furnish  himself  with  a  red  shield  of  two  boards  in  thickness,  a  spear,  an  axe,  or  a 
sword.  He  who  was  worth  twelve  marks,  in  addition  to  the  above,  was  ordered  to  procure  a  steel 
cap ;  whilst  he  who  had  eighteen  marks  was  obliged  to  have  also  a  coat  of  mail,  or  a  tunic  of 
quilted  linen  or  cloth,  and  all  usual  military  weapons,  amongst  which  the  bipennis,  or  double- 
bladed  axe,  was  the  most  national.  The  Danish  helmet,  like  the  Saxon,  had  the  nasal,  which  in 
Scandanavia  is  called  nef-biorg  (nose-guard),  and  to  which  the  collar  of  the  mail-hood,  which 
covered  the  chin,  was  frequently  hooked  up,  so  as  to  leave  little  of  the  face  unguarded  except 
the  eyes. 

*  Arcli.-plogia,  Vol.  III. 
t  Black  bordered  with  red  is  to  this  day  common  amongst  the  northern  peas;intry. 


"-t- 


['  He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  on  the  ice.'j 


99 


[Tlie  Platform  at  Elsinore.] 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I.— Ekinore.     A  Platform   before  the 
Castle. 

Francisco  on  Ids  post.     Enter  to  him  Bernardo. 

Ber.  Who's  there  ? 

Fran.  Nay,  answer  me;"   stand, 

and  unfold 
Yourself. 

Ber.  Long  live  the  king ! 

Fran.  Bernardo  ? 

Ber.  He. 

Fran.  You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hour. 

Ber.  'Tis  now  struck  twelve ;  get  thee  to  bed, 

Francisco. 
Fran.  For  this  relief,  much  thanks  :  'tis  bitter 
cold, 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Ber.  Have  you  had  quiet  guard  ? 
Fran.  Not  a  mouse  stirring. 

Ber.  Well,  good  night. 
If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 
The  rivals ''  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste. 

■  Answer  me.  I,  the  sentinel,  challenge  you.  Bernardo 
then  gives  the  answer  to  the  challenge,  or  watch-word — 
"  Long  live  the  king !  " 

••  iJira/s,— partners,  companions.  Shakspere  uses  rhality 
in  the  sense  of  partnership,  iu  Antony  and  Cleopatra :  "  Caesar 

Traoedies. — Vol.  I.  P 


Enter  Horatio  and  Marcei.lus. 


Fran.  I  think  I  hear  them. — Stand !  ^  who  is 
there  ? 

Hor.  Friends  to  this  ground. 

Mar.  And  liegemen  to 

the  Dane. 

Fran.  Give  you  good  night.'' 

Mar.  O,  farewell,  honest  soldier : 

Who  hath  reliev'd  you  ? 

Fran.  Bernardo  hath  my  place. 

Give  you  good  night.  \_Exit  Francisco. 

Mar.  Holla!  Bernardo! 

Ber.  Say, 

What,  is  Horatio  there  ? 

Hor.  A  piece  of  him. 

having  made  use  of  him  in  the  wars  'gainst  Pompey,  presently 
denied  him  rivality, — would  not  let  him  partake  in  the  glory 
of  the  action."  Tlie  derivation  of  rkal  t;ikes  us  into  an  early 
state  of  society.  Tlie  rivalis  was  a  common  occupier  of  a 
river, — rivus;  and  this  sort  of  occupation  being  a  fruitful  source 
of  strife,  the  partners  became  contenders.  Hence  the  more 
commonly  received  meaning  of  rival. 

»  In  the  quarto  of  1604  (B).     Stand,  ho! 

^  This  form  of  expression  is  an  abbreviation  of  "  may  God 
give  you  good  night;"  and  our  "  "ood  night"  is  an  abbre- 
viation abbreviated.  The  French  idiom  has  ^one  through  the 
same  process.  In  L'Avare  of  Moliere,  it  is  said  of  Harpagon, 
"  donner  est  un  mot  pour  qui  il  a  taut  d'avcrsion,  qu'il  ne  dit 
jamais,  je  vous  donne,  mais,  je  vous  prete  le  bonjour."  (Acte 
II.  Sc.  V.) 

101 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  I. 


Ber.  Welcome,  Horatio  ;  welcome,  good  Mar- 
celliis. 

Mar.^  What,  has  this  thing   appear'd  again 
to-night  1 

Ber.  I  have  seen  nothing. 

Mar.  Horatio  says,  'tis  but  our  fantasy ; 
And  will  not  let  belief  take  hold  of  him, 
Touching  this  dreaded  sight,  twice  seen  of  us  : 
Therefore  I  have  entreated  him  along 
With  us  to  watch  the  minutes  of  this  night ; 
That,  if  again  this  apparition  come, 
He  may  approve  our  eyes, ''  and  speak  to  it. 

Hor.  Tush  !  tush  !   'twill  not  appear. 

Ber.  Sit  down  awhile ; 

And  let  us  once  again  assail  your  ears, 
That  are  so  fortified  against  our  story, 
What  we  two  nights  have  seen. 

Hor.  Well,  sit  we  down. 

And  let  us  hear  Bernardo  speak  of  this. 

Ber.  Last  night  of  all. 
When  yon  same  star,  that's  westward  from  the 

pole. 
Had  made  his   course  to   illume    that   part   of 

heaven 
Where  now  it  burns,  Marcellus,  and  myself, 
The  bell  then  beating  one, — 

Mar.  Peace,  break  thee   off;  look,  where  it 


comes  again 


Enter  Ghost. 

Ber.  In  the  same  figure,  like  the  king  that's 

dead. 
Mar.  Thou  art  a  scholar,  speak  to  it,  Horatio.  *^ 
Ber.  Looks  it  not  like   the   king?  mark   it, 

H  oratio. 
Hor.  Most  like : — it  harrows"^  me  with  fear, 

and  wonder. 
Ber.  It  would  be  spoke  to. 
Mar.  Question*^  it,  Horatio. 

Hor.  What  art  thou,  that  usurp'st  this  time  of 

night, 
Together  with  that  fair  and  warlike  form 
In  which  the  majesty  of  buried  Denmark 

"  This  line  is  ordinarily  given  to  Horatio,  as  in  the  quarto 
(B").  In  the  folio,  and  the  first  quarto  of  1603,  (^A).  it  belongs 
to  Marcellus. 

•>  Confirm  what  we  have  seen. 

"  Exorcisms  were  usually  performed  in  Latin — the  language 
of  the  church-service. 

■>  Harrows,  in  the  folio.  In  quarto  (^), /lorrors;  'm{E),  har- 
rows. Mr.  Caldocott  states  that  the  word  harruip  is  here  used 
in  the  metaphorical  sense  which  it  takes  from  the  operations  of 
the  harrow,  in  tearing  asunder  clods  of  earth.  On  the  other 
hand  some  etymologists  assert  that  to  harrow  and  to  harry  (to 
vex,  to  disturb,)  are  the  same,  and  that  tlie  implement  of 
husbandry  derived  its  name  from  the  verb.  Mr.  Caldecott 
has  a  curious  note  on  the  harou  —  the  cry  for  help — of  the 
Normans,  witli  which  harrow  and  harry  seem  to  l.ave  some 
connexion.  (See  his '  Specimen  of  an  Edition  of  Shakespeare,' 
1832.) 

"  In  quarto  (B),  speak  to;  Question,  in  the  folio,  and  quarto 
{A). 

102 


Did  sometimes  march  ?  by  heaven  I  charge  thee, 
speak. 

Mar.  It  is  offended. 

Ber.  See  !  it  stalks  away. 

Hor.  Stay ;  speak  :  speak  I  charge  thee,  speak. 

\_Exit  Ghost. 

Mar.  'Tis  gone,  and  will  not  answer. 

Ber.  How  now,  Horatio  ?  you  tremble,   and 
look  pale : 
Is  not  this  something  more  than  fantasy  ? 
What  think  you  on't  1 

Hor.  Before  my  God,  I  might  not  this  believe, 
Without  the  sensible  and  true  avouch 
Of  mine  own  eyes. 

Mar.  Is  it  not  like  the  king? 

Hor.  As  thou  art  to  thyself: 
Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on. 
When  he  the  ambitious  Norway  combated ; 
So  frown'd  he  once,  when,  in  an  angry  parle, 
He  smote  the  sledded  Polacks  *  on  the  ice. 
'Tis  strange. 

Mar.  Thus,  twice  before,   and  just''  at  this 
dead  hour, 
With  martial  stalk  hath  he  gone  by  oin-  watch. 

Hor.  In  what  particular  thought  to  work,  I 
know  not ; 
But,  in  the  gross  and  scope  of  my  opinion. 
This  bodes  some  strange  eruption  to  our  state. 

Mar.  Good  now,  sit  down,  and  tell  me,  he 
that  knows. 
Why  this  same  strict  and  most  observant  watch 
So  nightly  toils  the  subject  of  the  land? 
And  why  such  daily  cast  of  brazen  cannon, 
And  foreign  mart  for  implements  of  war : 
Why  such  impress  of  shipwrights,  whose  sore 

task 
Does  not  divide  the  Sunday  from  the  week  : 
What  might  be  toward*^  that  this  sweaty  haste 
Doth  make  the  night  joint-labourer  with  the  day; 
Who  is't  that  can  inform  me  ? 

Hor.  That  can  I  ; 

At  least,  the  whisper  goes  so.     Our  last  king. 
Whose  image  even  but  now  appear'd  to  us. 
Was,  as  you  know,  by  Fortinbras  of  Norway, 
Thereto  prick'd  on  by  a  most  emulate  pride, 
Dar'd   to   the   combat;    in   which  oiu-    valiant 
Hamlet 


"  Polacks — Poles.  In  the  old  copies  the  word  is  spelt 
Pullax,  according  probably  with  the  pronunciation.  Steevens 
reads  Polach,  "  as  it  is  not  likely  that  provocation  was  given 
by  more  than  one." 

•>  Just,  in  the  folio ;  in  quarto  (B),  jump.  Malone  properly 
obser\ es,  that  "in  the  folio  we  sometimes  find  a  familiar  word 
substituted  for  one  more  ancient."  In  this  play,  however,  the 
more  ancient  word  occurs — "  so  jump  upon  this  bloody  ques- 
tion." (Act  v.  Sc.  II.) 

"=  Wliat  might  he  in  preparation.  To-weard,to-ward,  is  the 
Anglo-Saxon  participle,  eciuivalent  to  coming,  about  to  come. 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCENK  I. 


(For  so  this  side  of  our  known  world  esteem'd 

him) 
Did   slay   this   Fortinbras ;    who,    by   a   seal'd 

compict, 
Well  ratified  by  law,  and  heraldry,  * 
Did  forfeit,  with  his  life,  all  those  his  lands. 
Which  he  stood  seiz'd  on,  to  the  conqiieror : 
Against  the  which,  a  moiety  competent 
Was  gaged  by  om-  king ;  which  had  return'd 
To  the  inheritance  of  Fortinbras, 
Had   he   been   vanquisher;    as,    by   the   same 

cov'nant'' 
And  carriage  of  the  article  design 'd. 
His  fell  to  Hamlet :  No\v,  sir,  yoimg  Fortinbras, 
Of  unimproved<=  mettle  hot  and  fidl. 
Hath  in  the  skirts  of  Norway,  here  and  there, 
Shark'd  up  a  list  of  landless  resolutes. 
For  food  and  diet,  to  some  enterprize 
That  hath  a  stomach  in't :  which  is  no  other 
(And  it  doth  well  appear  imto  our  state,) 
But  to  recover  of  us,  by  strong  hand, 
And  terms  compulsative,  those  'foresaid  lands 
So  by  his  father  lost :  And  this,  I  take  it, 
Is  the  main  motive  of  our  preparations ; 
The  source  of  this  ovu-  watch  ;  and  the  chief  head 
Of  this  post-haste  and  romage  •*  in  the  land. 

l^Ber.  I  think  it  be  no  other,  but  even  so : 
Well  may  it  sort,  that  this  portentous  figure 
Comes  armed  through  our  watch :  so  like   the 

king 
That  was,  and  is,  the  question  of  these  wars. 

Ilor.  A  moth  it  is  to  trouble  the  mind's  eye. 
In  the  most  high  and  palmy  state  of  Rome, 
A  little  ere  the  mightiest  Julius  fell, 


"  The  solemn  agreement  for  this  tiial  at  arms  was  recog- 
nized by  tlie  courts  of  law  and  of  chivalry.  They  were 
distinct  ratifications  ;  and  therefore  "  law  and  heraldry  "  does 
not  mean  "the  herald  law,"  as  Upton  says. 

I"  Cov'nant,  in  the  folio;  in  quarto  (B),  co-mart. 
"  Unimprnred,  in  folio ;  in  quarto  (A,)  innpproved.  Johnson 
says,  "unimproved  mettle"  is  " full  of  spirit,  not  regulated 
or  guided  by  knowledge  and  experience."  Gifford  affirms 
thattheword  "unimproved,"  here  means  "just  the  contrary." 
Improve  was  originally  used  for  reprove. 

*  Romaye.  The  stowing  of  a  ship  is  the  roomage;  the 
stower  is  the  romager.  Thus,  the  hurried  search  attending 
lading  and  unlading  gave  us  rummage,  or  romage,  in  the 
sense  of  tumbling  over  and  tossing  about  things  in  confusion. 

«  The  eighteen  lines  in  brackets  are  found  in  quarto  (B), 
but  are  omitted  in  the  folio.  It  is  probable  that  Shakspere  sup- 
pressed this  magnificent  description  of  the  omens  which  pre- 
ceded the  fall  of  "  the  mightiest  Julius,"  after  he  had  written 
•  Julius  Caesar.'  In  that  noble  play  we  have  a  description 
greatly  resembling  this,  especially  in  the  lines  which  we  print 
in  italics  : — 

"  There  is  one  within. 

Besides  the  things  that  we  have  heard  and  seen. 

Recounts  most  horrid  sights  seen  by  the  watch. 

A  lioness  hath  whelped  in  the  streets ; 

And  graves  have  yau-rCd  and  yielded  vp  their  dead : 

Fierce  fiery  warriors  fight  upon  the  clouds. 

In  ranks,  and  squatlrons,  and  right  form  of  war. 

Which  tlrizzled  blood  upon  the  Capitol : 

The  noise  of  battle  hurtled  in  the  air ; 

Horses  do  neigh,  and  dying  men  did  groan  ; 

And  gitosts  did  shriek  and  squeal  about  the  streets." 


The  graves  stood  tenantless,  and  the  sheeted  dead 
Did  squeak  and  gibber  in  the  Roman  streets  :* 
As  stars  with  trains  of  fire  and  dews  of  blood, 
Disasters  in  the  sun ;  and  the  moist  star,  *• 
Upon  whose  influence  Neptune's  empire  stands. 
Was  sick  almost  to  dooms-day  with  eclipse. 
And  even  the  like  precurse  of  fierce  events, 
As  harbingers  preceding  still  the  fates. 
And  prologue  to  the  omen'^  coming  on. 
Have  heaven  and  earth  together  demonstrated 
Unto  oiu-  climatures  and  countrymen. — ] 

Re-enter  Ghost. 

But,  soft ;  behold !  lo,  where  it  comes  again  ! 
I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me. — Stay,  illusion ! 
If  thou  hast  any  sound,  or  use  of  voice, 
Speak  to  me : 

If  there  be  any  good  thing  to  be  done. 
That  may  to  thee  do  ease,  and  grace  to  me. 
Speak  to  me : 

If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate, 
Which,  happily,  foreknowing  may  avoid, 
O,  speak ! 

Or,  if  thou  hast  uphoarded  in  thy  life 
Extorted  treasure  in  the  womb  of  earth, 
For  which,  they  say,  you  spirits  oft  walk  in  death, 

[^Cock  crows. 
Speak  of  it:— stay,  and  speak. — Stop  it,  Mar- 
cellus. 

Mar.  Shall  I  strike  at  it  with  my  partizan  ? 

Hor.  Do,  if  it  will  not  stand. 

Ber.  'Tis  here ! 

Hor.  'Tis  here ! 

Mar.  'Tis  gone  !  [^Exit  Ghost. 

We  do  it  wrong,  being  so  majestical. 
To  offer  it  the  show  of  violence  ; 
For  it  is,  as  the  air,  invulnerable. 
And  our  vain  blows  malicious  mockery. 

Ber.  It  was  about  to  speak,  when  the  cock 
crew. 


»  The  commentators  assume  that  a  line  is  here  omitted. 
Howe  alters  the  construction  of  the  next  two  lines,  and  reads, — 
"  Stars  shcme  with  trains  of  fire,  dews  of  blood /e//. 
Disasters  veiVd  the  sun." 
Malone,  instead  of  "As  stars"  would  read  astres.  This 
appears  to  get  rid  of  the  difficulty,  for  we  then  have  the  recital 
of  other  prodigies,  in  connexion  with  the  appearance  of  "the 
sheeted  dead."  Stecvens,  however,  says  that  there  is  no  au- 
thority for  the  use  of  the  word  astre.  But  astral  was  not 
unc.ornmon;  and  asterisk  was  used  for  a  little  star,  and 
(isterism  for  a  constellation.  We  leave  the  passage  as  we  find 
it  in  the  quarto. 

b  The  moist  star  is  the  moon.     So,  iu  the  Winter's  Tale  :— 
"  Nine  changes  of  the  watery  star  have  been 
The  shepherd's  note." 
0  Omen  is  here  put  for  "portentous  event."     The  word  is 
used  in  the  sense  oifate  by  Heywood : — 

"  Merlin,  well  vers'd  in  many  a  hidden  spell. 
His  country's  omen  did  long  since  foretell." 
Upton  points  out  that  Shakspere  uses  "omen"  here  in  the 
very  same  manner  as  Virgil  does,  iEu.  i.  349. 

103 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Hor.  And  then  it  started  like  a  guilty  thing 
Upon  a  fearful  summons.     I  have  heard, 
The  cock,  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the  morn,  * 
Doth  with  his  lofty  and  shrill-sounding  throat 
Awake  the  god  of  day;  and,  at  his  warning, 
Whether  in  sea  or  fire,  in  earth  or  air, 
The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit  hies 
To  his  confine  : »  and  of  the  truth  herein 
This  present  object  made  probation. 

Mar.  It  faded  on  the  crowing  of  the  cock. 
Some  say,  that  ever  'gainst  that  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long  : 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  can  walk^  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  ;  then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes, «  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm. 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time. 

Hor.  So  have  I  heard,   and  do  in  part  be- 
lieve it. 
But,  look,  the  morn,  in  russet  mantle  clad, 
Walks  o'er  the  dew  of  yon  high  eastern  hill  :* 
Break  we  our  watch  up ;  and,  by  my  advice, 
Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
Unto  young  Hamlet :  for,  upon  my  life, 
This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him : 
Do  you  consent  we  shall  acquaint  him  with  it, 
As  needful  in  our  loves,  fitting  our  duty  ? 

Mar.  Let's  do't,  I  pray :  and  I  this  morning 
know 
Where  we  shall  find  him  most  conveniently. 

\F.xeunt. 

SCENE  II.— TV^e  same.      A  Room  of  State  in 
the  same. 

Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Hamlet,  Polonius, 
Laertes,  Voltimand,  Cornelius,  and  Lords 
Attendant. 

King.  Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  bro- 
ther's death 
The  memory  be  green  ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To   bear  our   hearts   in   grief,    and  our    whole 

kingdom 
To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe  ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature. 
That  we  witli  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him. 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen. 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state. 
Have  we,  as  'twere,  with  a  defeated  joy. 
With  one  auspicious  and  one  dropping  eye ; 

"  Mom,  in  qiuiito  {B^  ;  in  folio,  day.    The  reading  of  tlie 
quarto  avoids  the  repetition  of  dm/  in  the  next  line  but  one. 
"J  Can  walk,  in  folio.     In  quarto  (B),  "dare  stir." 
"  TVtAes— seizes  with  disease.     As   in  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor, — 

"  And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes  the  cattle." 
104 


With  mirth  in  funeral,  and  with  dirge  in  marriage 
In  equal  scale,  weighing  dehght  and  dole, 
Taken  to  wife  :  nor  have  we  herein  baiT'd 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along : — For  all,  our  thanks. 

Now  follows,  that  you  know,  young  Fortinbras, 
Holding  a  weak  supposal  of  our  worth  ; 
Or  thinking,  by  our  late  dear  brother's  death. 
Our  state  to  be  disjoint  and  out  of  frame, 
CoUeagued  with  the  dream  of  his  advantage, 
He  hath  not  fail'd  to  pester  us  with  message. 
Importing  the  surrender  of  those  lands 
Lost  by  his  father,  with  all  bonds  of  law. 
To  our  most  valiant  brother. — So  much  for  him. 
Now  for  ourself,  and  for  this  time  of  meeting. 
Thus  much  the  business  is  :  We  have  here  writ 
To  Norway,  uncle  of  young  Fortinbras, 
Who,  impotent  and  bed-rid,  scarcely  hears 
Of  this  his  nephew's  purpose,  to  suppress 
His  further  gait*  herein  ;  in  that  the  levies, 
The  lists,  and  full  proportions,  are  all  made 
Out  of  his  subject  -.^  and  we  here  despatch 
You,  good  Cornelius,  and  you,  Voltimand, 
For  bearing  of  this  greeting  to  old  Norway ; 
Giving  to  yovi  no  further  personal  power 
To  business  with  the  king,  more  than  the  scope 
Of  these  dilated  articles  allow.  ^ 
Farewell ;  and  let  your  haste  commend  your  duty. 
Cor.  Vol.  In   that,   and   all   things,    will   we 

show  our  duty. 
King.  We  doubt  it  nothing ;  heartily  farewell. 
l^Exeunt  Voltimand  and  Cornelius. 

And  now,  Laertes,  what's  the  news  with  you? 

You  told  us  of  some  suit?  What  is't,  Laertes? 

You  cannot  speak  of  reason  to  the  Dane, 

And  lose  your  voice  :  What  would'st  thou  beg, 
Laertes, 

That  shall  not  be  my  offer,  not  thy  asking  ? 

The  head  is  not  more  native  to  the  heart. 

The  hand  more  instrumental  to  the  mouth. 

Than  is  the  throne  of  Denmark  to  thy  father. 

What  would'st  thou  have,  Laertes  ? 

Laer.  Dread  my  lord, 

Your  leave  and  favour  to  return  to  France ; 

From  whence  though  willingly  I  came  to  Den- 
mark, 

To  show  my  duty  in  your  coronation  ; 

Yet  now,  I  must  confess,  that  duty  done, 

My  thoughts  and  wishes  bend  again  towards 
France, 

And  bow  them  to  your  gi-acious  leave  and  pardon. 

»  Gail — progress,  the  act  of  going.     Thus,  in  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream, — 

"  Every  fairy  take  his  gait." 

^  Out  of  It's  subject — out  of  these  subject  to  him. 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


King.  Have  you  your  father's  leave?  What 

says  Polonius  ? 
Pol.  He  hatli,  my  lord,   [wrung*  from    me 
my  slow  leave, 
By  laboursome  petition  ;  and,  at  last. 
Upon  his  will  I  seal'd  my  hard  consent :] 
I  do  beseech  you,  give  him  leave  to  go. 
King.  Take  thy  fair  hour,  Laertes ;  time  be 
thine, 
And  thy  best  graces  spend  it  at  thy  will ! 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son,— 
Ham.  A  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than 
kind.  ^  [Aside. 

King.  How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on 

you? 
Ham.  Not  so,  my  lord,  I  am  too  much  i'  the 

sun.'^ 
Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nightly  colour 
off. 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  for  ever,  with  thy  vailed  lids 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust : 
Thou  know'st,  'tis  common;  all  that  lives  must 

die. 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 
Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 
Queen.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  Avith  thee  ? 

Ham.  Seems,  madam !  nay,  it  is  ;  I  know  not 
seems. 
'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother. 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forc'd  breath. 
No,  nor  the  fruitfid  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  haviour  of  the  visage. 
Together  with  all  forms,  moods,  ^  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly  :  These,  indeed,  seem, 

"  The  passage  in  brackets  is  found  in  quarto  (B),  but  not  in 
the  folio. 

•"  Caldocott  interprets  this  passage  thus : — ' '  More  than  a 
commou  relation ;  having  a  confessedly  accumulated  title  of 
relationship,  you  have  less  tlian  benevolent,  or  less  than  even 
natural  feeling."  But  surely  Hamlet  applies  these  words  to 
himself.  The  king  has  called  him,  "my  cousin  Hamlet." 
He  says,  in  a  suppressed  tone,  "  A  little  more  than  kin  " — a 
little  more  than  cousin.  The  king  adds,  "and  my  son." 
Hamlet  says,  "  less  thau  kind ;  " — I  am  little  of  the  same  nature 
with  you.  Kind  is  constantly  used  in  the  sense  of  nature  by 
Ben  .tonson  and  other  contemporaries  of  Shakspere. 

"  Farmer  thinks  that  a  ([uibble  was  intended  between  sun 
and  swi.  Surely  not.  Hamlet  says  he  is  too  much  in  the  sun 
for  clouds  to  hang  over  him ;  and  his  meaning  is  at  once 
explained  by  an  old  proverb.  In  Grindal's  '  Profitable  Dis- 
course,' 1553,  we  find  this  proverb;  and  the  context  clearly 
gives  its  meaning  :  "In  very  deed  they  were  brought /com  the 
good  tu  the  had,  and/com  God's  blessing,  as  the  proverbe  is,  into 
a  warvie  Sonne."  Raleigh  has  the  same  expression  in  his 
Histtiiy  of  the  World. 

>•  Moods.  So  the  folio  and  quartos.  The  modern  reading  is 
mode.  Mood  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  mode;  but  it 
is,  perliaps,  here  meant  to  signify  somethini'  beyond  the  mere 
manner  of  giief — the  manner  as  exhibited  in  the  outward 
madness.  The  forms  are  the  ceremonials  of  grief, — the  moods  its 
prevailing  sullcnness; — ^the  s/wivs  (shapes  in  the  quartos)  its 
fits  ofpassion. 


For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show ; 
These,  but  the  trappings  and  tlie  suits  of  woe. 

King.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your 
nature,  Hamlet, 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father : 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father ; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his ;  and  the  survivor  bound 
In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term 
To  do  obsequious*  sorrow  :  But  to  pers^ver 
In  obstinate  condolement,  is  a  course 
Of  impious  stubbornness;   'tis  unmanly  grief: 
It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven ; 
A  heart  unfortified,  a  mind  impatient, 
An  understanding  simple  and  vmschool'd  : 
For  what,  we  know,  must  be,  and  is  as  common 
As  any  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense, 
Why  should  we,  in  our  peevish  opposition, 
Take  it  to  heart  ?  Fye  !   'tis  a  fault  to  heaven, 
A  faidt  against  the  dead,  a  faidt  to  nature. 
To  reason  most  absurd ;  whose  common  theme 
Is  death  of  fathers,  and  who  still  hath  cried. 
From  the  first  corse,  till  he  that  died  to-day. 
This  must  be  so.     We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 
This  unprevailing  woe  ;  and  think  of  us 
As  of  a  father :  for  let  the  world  take  note. 
You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne , 
And,  with  no  less  nobility  of  love. 
Than  that  which  dearest  father  bears  his  son, 
Do  I  impart  towards  you.     For  your  intent 
In  going  back  to  school  in  Wittenberg, 
It  is  most  retrograde  to  our  desire  : 
And,  we  beseech  you,  bend  you  to  remain 
Here,  in  the  cheer  and  comfort  of  our  eye, 
Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

Queen.  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers, 
Hamlet ; 
I  pray  thee,  stay  with  us ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 

Ham.  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 

King.  Why,  'tis  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply ; 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come; 
This  gentle  and  unforc'd  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart :  in  grace  whereof. 
No  jocund  health  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day. 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell ; 
And  the  king's   rouse  the  heaven   shall  bruit 

again. 
Re-speaking  earthly  thimder.     Come  away. 

\_Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Lords,  ^-c,  Polo- 
nius, and  Laertes. 

Ham.  O,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would 
melt. 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 


Obsequious  soiruiv — funereal  sorrow, — from  obsequies. 

105 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fix'd 

His  canon''   'gainst  self-slaughter!  O   God!   O 

God! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seems  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world  ! 
Fye  on't !  O  fye !   'tis  an  unweeded  garden. 
That  grows  to  seed ;  things  rank,  and  gross  in 

nature. 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 
But  two  months  dead ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not 

two ; 
So  excellent  a  king ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr  :  *  so  loving  to  my  mother, 
That  he  might  not  beteem ''  the  winds  of  heaven 
Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth ! 
Must  I   remember?  why,  she  would  hang  on 

him, 
As  if  increase  of  appetite  had  grown 
By  what  it  fed  on  :  And  yet,  within  a  month, — 
Let  me  not  think  on't; — Frailty,  thy  name  is 

woman ! — 
A  little  month ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old. 
With  which  she  follow'd  my  poor  father's  body. 
Like  Niobe,  all  tears ; — why  she,  even  she, — 
O   heaven !    a  beast,    that  wants   discourse   of 

reason,  •= 
Would   have   mourn'd    longer, — married    with 

mine  uncle, 

»  Canon.  In  the  old  editions  this  word  is  spelt  cannon;  and 
thus  the  commentiitors  think  it  necessary  to  prove  that  the 
levelling  of  a  piece  of  artillery  is  not  here  meant.  By  a  cu- 
rious analogy,  ordnance  in  the  old  writers  is  spelt  ordinance. 
A  canon  and  an  ordinance  have  the  same  sense ;  and  yet,  accord- 
ing to  the  received  etymologies,  the  words  have  no  common 
source.  A  canon  and  a  cannon  are  each,  it  is  said,  derived  from 
canna,  a  cane ; — its  straightness  applied  as  a  measure,  rule, 
giving  us  canon;  its  length  and  hollowness,  cannon.  Ordi- 
nance, of  course,  is  derived  from  ordinare;  and  the  first  French 
cannoneers  bein<'  named  Gendarmes rfes  Ordonnances,  the  guns 
which  they  used  came,  it  is  affirmed,  to  be  called  ordnance. 
We  are  inclined  to  think  that  these  etymologies,  as  applied  to 
artillery,  are  somewhat  fanciful.  We  have  canon  direct  from 
the  Anglo-Saxon,  while  in  that  language  a  cane  is  bune.  Look- 
ing at  the  precision  with  which  "  our  greatest  ordinance"  are  de- 
scribed by  Harrison, — their  various  names,  weight  of  the  shot, 
weight  of  powder  used,  &c.,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that 
cannon  and  ordinance  denoted  such  pieces  of  artillery  as  were 
made  according  to  a  strict  technical  rule,  canon,  or  ordinance. 
In  Harrison,  cannon  is  spelt  canon,  showing  the  French  deri- 
vation of  the  word. 

•>  Beteem.  Steevens  brought  hack  this  word,  which  had 
been  modernised  into  let  e'en ;  the  sentence  was  afterwards 
changed  to  "that  he  permitted  not."  To  fieieem,  in  this  pas- 
sage, means  to  vouchsafe,  to  allow,  to  suffer.  In  Heywood's 
'  Britaiue's  Troy,'  1636,  we  have  these  lines : — 
"  They  call'd  him  God  on  earth,  and  much  esteem'd  him  ; 
Much  honour  he  rcceiv'd,  which  they  beteem'd  him." 

<>  Discourse  of  reason.     In  Massinger  we  have : — 
"  It  adds  to  my  calamity  that  I  have 
Discourse  and  reason." 
GKTord  thinks  that  this  passage  in  Shakspere  should  also  be 
"discourse  and  reason."     But  a  subsequent  passage  in  this 
play  explains  the  phrase,  and  shows  that  by  discourse  is  not 
meant  language : — 

"  Sure  he  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse. 
Looking  before  and  after." 

The  discourse  of  reason  is  the  discursion  of  reason — the  faculty 
of  pursuing  a  train  of  thought,  or  of  passing  from  one  thought 
to  another; — "the  discoursing  thought,"  as  Sir  John  Davies 
exjiresses  it. 

106 


My  father's  brother ;  but  no  more  like  my  father, 
Than  I  to  Hercules  :  Within  a  month  ; 
Ere  yet  the  salt  of  most  unrighteous  tears 
Had  left  the  flushing  of  her  galled  eyes. 
She  married: — O  most  wicked  speed,  to  post 
With  such  dexterity  to  incestuous  sheets ; 
It  is  not,  nor  it  cannot  come  to,  good ; 
But  break,   my  heart;    for   I    must   hold   my 
tongue ! 

Enter  Horatio,  Bernardo,  and  Marcellus. 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship  ! 
Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see 

you  well : 
Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  ser- 
vant ever. 
Ham.  Sir,  my  good  fi-iend;  I'll  change  that 
name  with  you. 
And  what  make  you  from  Wittenberg,  Horatio? — 
Marcellus  ? 

Mar.  My  good  lord, — 

Ham.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you ;  good  even, 
sir, —  * 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg  ? 
Hor.  A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 
Ham.  I  would  not  have  your  enemy  say  so ; 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence. 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Against  yourself:  I  know,  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 
We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart. 
Hor.  My  lord,   I  came  to  see  your  father's 

funeral. 
Ham.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow- 
student  ; 
I  think  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 
Hor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  follow'd  hai"d  upon. 
Ham.   Thrift,    thrift,''  Horatio!    the  funeral 
bak'd  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
'Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  ^  in  heaven 

"  Good  even.  This  has  been  changed  to  good  mornrngi;  and 
Steevens  defends  the  change,  because  Marcellus  has  previously 
said  of  Hamlet, — 

"  I  this  morning  know 
Where  we  shall  find  him." 

The  changers  of  the  text  forgot  that  the  salutation  "good  e%'en  " 
was  used  immediately  after  noon. 

■>  Thrift,  thrift.  It  was  a  frugal  arrangement, — a  thrifty 
proceeding, — tliere  was  no  waste — 

"  The  funeral  bak'd  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables." 
"  Dearest  foe.  For  an  explanation  of  one  of  the  apparently 
contradictory  senses  in  which  dear  is  used  liy  Shakspere,  see 
Note  to  Riclwird  II.  Act  i.  Sc.  iii.  Upon  tlie  passage  before 
us,  C;ildccott  remarks,  that  throughout  Shakspere,  and  all  the 
poets  of  his  day,  and  much  later,  "  we  find  this  epithet  applied 
to  that  person  or  thing  which,  for  or  against  us,  excites  the 
liveliest  interest." 


Arrl.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCFNK  11. 


Ere  I  had  ever  seen  that  da}',  Horatio  ! — 
My  father, — Methinks,  I  see  my  father. 

Hor.  O,  where, 

My  lord? 

Ham.  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.  I  saw  him  once,  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.    My  lord,  I  think    I  saw  him  yester- 
night. 

Ham.  Saw!  who? 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king  my  father ! 

Hor.  Season  your  admiration  for  a  while 
With  an  attent  ear ;  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen. 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  heaven's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.  Two   nights   together   had   these   gen- 
tlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch. 
In  the  dead  waste  ^  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encounter'd.    A  figure  like  your  father, 
Arm'd  at  all  points,  exactly,  cap-a-pe, 
Appears  before  them,  and,  with  solemn  march. 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them:  thrice  he  walk'd, 
By  their  oppress'd  and  fear-surprized  eyes, 
Within   his    truncheon's    length ;    whilst   they, 

bestill'd'' 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear. 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 
In  dreadfid  secrecy  impart  they  did ; 
And  I  with  them  the  third  night  kept  the  watch : 
Where,  as  they  had  deliver'd,  both  in  time, 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and 

good, 
The  apparition  comes  :  I  knew  your  father ; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this  ? 

Mar.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we 
watch'd. 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did  : 

But    answer  made     it    none :    yet    once,    me- 

thought, 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 
Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  : 
But,  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud  ; 

»  Dead  tvaste.  Tliis  is  ordinarily  printed  "dead  waist." 
The  quarto  of  1603,  which  was  unknown  to  Steevens  and  Ma- 
lone,  reads,  "  dead  mst."  In  the  Tempest  we  find  "  vast  of 
night,"  which  Steeveus  explains  thus: — "  The  v;ist  of  night, 
means  the  night  which  is  naturally  empty  and  deserted,  with- 
out action ;  or,  when  all  things  lying  in  sleep  and  silence, 
makes  the  world  appear  one  great  uninhabited  ivastc." 

'  Bcstill'd,  in  the  folio;  the  quartos,  distill'd.    Tostill,  is  to 
fall  in  drops; — they  were  dissolved — separated  drop  by  drop, 
"  Almost  to  jelly,  by  tlie  act  of  fear." 


And  at  the  sound  it  shnmk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanish'd  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honour'd  lord,  'tis  true ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty. 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles 
me. 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

All.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Arm'd,  say  you?'"' 

ylll.  Arm'd,  my  lord. 

Ham.  From  top  to  toe? 

All.  My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ham.  Then  saw  you  not 

His  face. 

Hor.  O,  yes,  my  lord ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up. '' 

Ham.  What,  look'd  he  frowningly? 

Hor.  A  countenance  more 

In  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Ham.  Pale,  or  red? 

Hor.  Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  you? 

Hor.  Most  constantly. 

Ham.  I  would  I  had  been  there. 

Hor.  It  would  have  much  amaz'd  you. 

Ham.  Very  like, 

Very  like  :  Stay'd  it  long? 

Hor.  While  one  with  modern  haste  might  tell 
a  hundred. 

Mar.  Ber.  Longer,  longer. 

Hor.  Not  when  I  saw  it. 

Ham.  His  beard  was  grizly?  no. 

Hor.  It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silver'd. 

Ham.  I  will  watch  to-night; 

Perchance,  'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  warrant  it  will. 

Ham.  If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 
I  '11  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape, 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  conceal'd  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  treble •=  in  your  silence  still; 

"  This  passage  is  sometimes  read  and  acted,  as  if  "Arm'd, 
say  you  ?"  applied  to  the  manner  in  which  Horatio  and  Mar- 
cehus  prepared  to  hold  their  w  atcli ;  and  we  have  somewhere 
seen  a  criticism  which  notes  "  Then  saw  you  not  his  facer" 
as  a  memorable  example  of  the  force  of  an  abrupt  transition. 
"  Arm'd,  say  you  ?"  w ithout  doubt,  is  asked  witli  reference  to 
tlie  Ghost,  who  has  been  described  by  Horatio  as 

"  Arm'd  at  all  points  exactly,  cap-ape." 
Hamlet,  with  his  mind  full  of  this  description,  anticipates  the 
re-appearance  of  the  figme,  when  he  asks, 

"  Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ?" 
and  proceeds  to  those  miinite  questions  which  c^rrry  forward 
the  deep  impressions  of  trutli  and  reality  with  wliich  every- 
tliing  connected  with  the  supernahiral  apjiearauce  of  Hamlet's 
father  is  invested. 

">  See  niustiations  to  Henry  IV.,  Part  II.,  Act  iv.  Sc.  i. 

"  Treble.  So  the  folio;  in  "quarto  (B),  fenai/e.  Hamlet  im- 
poses a  threefold  obligation  of  silence. 

107 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  III. 


And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue ; 
I  will  requite  your  loves .  So,  fare  ye  well : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  yoiur  honour. 

Ham.  Your  love,  as  mine  to  you :  Farewell. 
\_Exemit  Horatio,  Marcellus,  a?«f?  Bernardo. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms !  all  is  not  well ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play :  'woidd  the  night  were 

come ! 
Till  then  sit  still,  my  soul.  FoiU  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  o'erwhelm  them,  to  men's 
eyes.  \^ExU. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Polonius'  House. 

Enter  Laertes  and  Ophelia. 

Laer.  My  necessaries  are  embark'd;  farewell: 
And,  sister,  as  the  winds  give  benefit. 
And  convoy  is  assistant,  do  not  sleep, 
But  let  me  hear  from  you. 

Oph.  Do  you  doubt  that? 

Laer.  For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  fa- 
vours, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  in  blood; 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature. 
Forward,  not  permanent,  sweet,  not  lasting. 
The  [perfume  and]  suppliance  of  a  minute ; 
No  more. 

Oph.         No  more  but  so  ? 

Laer.  Think  it  no  more  . 

For  natiu"e,  crescent,  does  not  grow  alone 
In  thews,  and  bulk ;  but,  as  this  temple  waxes. 
The  inward  service  of  the  mind  and  soul 
Grows  wide  withal.     Perhaps,  he  loves  you  now ; 
And  now  no  soil,  nor  cautel,  doth  besmirch' 
The  virtue  of  his  will :  but,  you  must  feai*, 
His  greatness  weigh'd,  his  will  is  not  his  own; 
For  he  himself  is  subject  to  his  birth: 
He  may  not,  as  unvalued  persons  do. 
Carve  for  himself;  for  on  his  choice  depends 
The  sanctity ''  and  health  of  the  whole  state; 
And  therefore  nnist  his  choice  be  circumscrib'd 
Unto  the  voice  and  yielding  of  that  body, 
Whereof  he  is  the  head:  Then  if  he  says,  he 

loves  you, 
It  fits  your  wisdom  so  far  to  believe  it, 
As  he  in  his  peculiar  sect  and  force  *^ 
May  give  his  saying  deed ;  which  is  no  further. 
Than  the  main  voice  of  Denmark  goes  witlial. 

"  Soil,  is  a,  spot;  caufe/,  a  crafty  way  to  deceive;  besmirch, 
to  sully. 

■■  Sanctity.     So  the  folio  ;  the  cpiartos,  safety. 
^  Peculiar  sect  and  force.    So  the  folio;  the'quarto  (JB),pf(r- 
ticuhir  act  and  place. 
108 


Then  weigh  what  loss  your  honour  may  sustain, 
If  with  too  credent  ear  you  list  his  songs; 
Or  lose  your  heart ;  or  your  chaste  treasure  open 
To  his  unmaster'd  importunity. 
Fear  it,  Ophelia,  fear  it,  my  dear  sister; 
And  keep  within  the  rear  of  your  affection, 
Out  of  the  shot  and  danger  of  desire. 
The  chariesf^  maid  is  pi-odigal  enough. 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon  : 
Virtue  itself  scapes  not  calumnious  strokes  : 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring, '' 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd; 
And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 
Be  wary  then:  best  safety  lies  in  fear; 
Youth  to  itself  rebels,  though  none  else  near. 

Oph.  I   shall  the  effect  of  this  good  lesson 
keep. 
As  watchmen  to  my  heart :  But,  good  my  brother. 
Do  not,  as  some  vmgracious  pastors  do. 
Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven ; 
Whilst,  like  a  puff"d  and  reckless  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads, 
And  recks  not  his  own  read.* 

Laer.  O  fear  me  not. 

I  stay  too  long ;  —  But  here  my  father  comes. 

Enter  Polonius. 
A  double  blessing  is  a  double  grace ; 
Occasion  smiles  upon  a  second  leave. 

Pol.  Yet  here,  Laertes !  aboard,  aboard,  for 

shame ; 
The  wind  sits  in  the  shoulder  of  your  sail, 
And  you  are  staid  for .  There,  my  blessing  with 

you ! 

[^Laying  his  hatid  on  Laertes'  head. 
And  these  few  precepts  in  thy  memory 
See  thou   character.      Give   thy    thoughts    no 

tongue. 
Nor  any  unproportion'd  thought  his  act. 
Be  thou  familiar,  but  by  no  means  vulgar. 
The  friends  thou  hast,  and  their  adoption  tried, 
Grapple  them  to  thy  soul  with  hoops  '^  of  steel ; 
But  do  not  dull  thy  palm  with  entertainment 
Of  each  new-hatch'd,unfledg'd  comrade.  Beware 
Of  entrance  to  a  quarrel :  but,  being  in, 
Bear't  that  the  opposed  may  beware  of  thee. 
Give  every  man  thine  ear,  but  few  thy  voice : 

"  Chariest. — Most  cautious. 

••  Shakspere  has  the  same  beautiful  expression  in  Love's 
Labour's  Lost : — 

"  An  envious  sneapinj;  frost 
That  bites  the  first-born  infants  of  the  spring." 

"  Read. — Counsel,  doctrine. 

*  Hoops.  Modern  editors  have  unwarrantably  substituted 
hooks.  Malone,  justifying  the  change,  observes,  with  great  so- 
lemnity, "  hooks  are  sometimes  made  of  steel,  but /iwips  never." 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV. 


Take  eacli  man's  censure,  but  reserve  thy  judg- 
ment. 
Costly  thy  habit  as  thy  purse  can  buy, 
But  not  express'd  m  fancy;  rich,  not  gaudy: 
For  the  apparel  oft  proclaims  the  man ; 
And  they  in  France  of  the  best  rank  and  station 
Are  of  a  most  select  and  generous  chief  in  that.  ^ 
Neither  a  borrower,  nor  a  lender  be  : 
For  loan  oft  loses  both  itself  and  friend ; 
And  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
This  above  all, — To  thine  ownself  be  true; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 
Farewell ;  my  blessing  season  this  in  thee ! '' 

Laer.  Most  humbly  do  I  take  my  leave,  my 
lord. 

Pol,  The  time  invites  you ;  go,  your  servants 
tend. 

Laer.  Farewell,  Ophelia ;  and  remember  well 
What  I  have  said  to  you. 

Oph.  'Tis  in  my  memory  lock'd, 

And  you  yourself  shall  keep  the  key  of  it. 

Laer.  Farewell.  \JLxit  Laertes. 

Pol.  What  is't,  Ophelia,  he  hath  said  to  you  ? 

Oph.  So  please  you,  something  touching  the 
lord  Hamlet. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  bethought : 
'Tis  told  me,  he  hath  very  oft  of  late 
Given  private  time  to  you :  and  you  yourself 
Have  of  your  audience  been  most  free  and  boun- 
teous : 
If  it  be  so,  (as  so  'tis  put  on  me, 
And  that  in  way  of  caution,)  I  must  tell  you. 
You  do  not  understand  yourself  so  clearly, 
As  it  behoves  my  daughter,  and  your  honour  ; 
What  is  between  you  ?  give  me  up  the  truth. 

Oph.  He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late,  made  many 
tenders 
Of  his  affection  to  me. 

Pol.  Affection  ?  puh  !  you  speak  like  a  green 

girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstance. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them  ? 


»  So  stands  the  line  in  the  folio,  aud  in  the  quartos,  includ- 
ing tliat  of  1603,  "  Of  a"  has  heen  rejected  by  all  the  editors, 
except  Maloue ;  who  deems  chief,  chiefe,  or  rlipff,  to  be  a  sub- 
stantive, having  a  meaning  derived  from  heraldry.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  go  to  heraldry  for  an  explanation  of  the 
word  :  we  have  it  in  composition,  as  in  mischief,  and  the  now 
obsolete  bonchief.  Chef,  literally  the  head,  here  signifies  emi- 
nence, superiority.  Those  of  the  best  rank  aud  station  are  of  a 
most  select  and  generous  superiority  in  the  iudic:ition  of  their 
dignity  by  their  apparel. 

°  It  has  been  objected  to  these  maxims  of  Polonius,  that 
their  good  sense  ill  accords  with  his  general  character,  his  te- 
diousness,  his  babbling  vanity.  It  is  remarkable  that  in  the 
quarto  of  1603,  the  "  precepts  "  are  printed  with  inverted  com- 
mas, as  if  they  were  taken  from  some  known  source ;  or,  at 
any  rate,  as  if  Polonius  had  delivered  them  by  an  effort  of 
memory  alone. 

Tbaoedies. — Vol..  I.  Q 


Ojjh.  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should 

think. 
Pol.  Marry,  I'll  teach  you:  think  yourself  a 

baby ; 
That  you  have  ta'en  his  tenders  for  true  pay, 
Which  are  not  sterling.     Tender  yourself  more 

dearly ; 
Or,  (not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase. 
Roaming*  it  thus,)  you'll  tender  me  a  fool. 
Oph.  My  lord,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with 

love. 
In  honom-able  fashion. 

Pol.  Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it ;  go  to,  go  to. 
Oph.    And   hath   given   countenance    to   his 

speech,  my  lord, 
With  all  the  vows  of  heaven.'' 

Pol.  Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks.     I  do 

know. 
When  the  blood  burns,  how  prodigal  the  soul 
Gives'^  the  tongue  vows  :  these  blazes,  daughter. 
Giving  more  light  than  heat,^ extinct  in  both, 
Even  in  their  promise,  as  it  is  a  making, — 
You  must  not  take  for  fire.     From  this  time, 

daughter,'' 
Be  somewhat  scanter  of  your  maiden  presence ; 
Set  your  entreatments  at  a  higher  rate, 
Than  a  command  to  parley.     For  lord  Hamlet, 
Believe  so  much  in  him,  that  he  is  young ; 
And  with  a  larger  tether  may  he  walk. 
Than  may  be  given  you  :  In  few,  Ophelia, 
Do  not  believe  his  vows ;  for  they  are  brokers; — 
Not  of  the  eye  "^  which  their  investments  show, 
But  mere  implorators  of  unholy  suits. 
Breathing  like  sanctified  and  pious  bonds. 
The  better  to  beguile.     This  is  for  all, — 
I  would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth. 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment's  leisure. 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  lord  Hamlet. 
Look  to't,  I  charge  you;  come  your  ways. 
Oph.  I  shall  obey,  my  lord.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  lY.—The  Platform. 

Enter  Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcellus. 
Ham.  The  air  bites  shrewdly.    Is  it  very  cold?  ^ 

»  Roaming.  So  the  folio ;— the  common  reading  is  wrimg- 
ing.  "Roaming  it  thus,"  applies  to  the  various  senses  in 
which  Polonius  has  used  the  word  "  tender." 

•>  So  the  Hue  stands  in  the  folio.     In  quarto  (B). : — 
"With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven." 
"  Gives,  in  folio  ;  quartos,  lends. 
*  In  the  quartos,  daughter  is  here  wanting. 
'  The  eye.     So  the  folio  ;  the  quartos,  */«i«  die.     An«yewas 
used  to  express  a  slight  tint,  as  in  the  Tempest : — 
"  Ant.  The  gi-ound  indeed  is  tawny. 
Seb.  With  an  eye  of  green  in't." 
It  is  here  metaphorically  put  for  character. 

f  The  quartos  read,  "  It  is  very  cold."  In  the  folio  we  have 
distinctly,  "  Is  it  very  cold  ?"  with  a  note  of  interrogation . 

100 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCKNE    IV. 


Hor.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Ham.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor.  I  think,  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.  No,  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed?  I  heard  it  not;  then  it  draws 
near  the  season. 
Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont  to  walk. 

\_A  flourish  of  triimpets,  and  ordnance 
shot  ojf,  within. 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord? 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes 
his  rouse,  * 
Keeps  wassels,   and  the  swaggering  up-spring 

reels ; 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down. 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.  Is  it  a  custom? 

Ham.  Ay,  many,  is't: 
And  to  my  mind,  though  I  am  native  here. 
And  to  the  manner  born,  it  is  a  custom 
More  honour'd  in  the  breach  than  the  observance. 
["This  heavy-headed  revel,  east  and  west. 
Makes  us  traduc'd,  and  tax'd  of  other  nations  : 
They  clepe  us  drunkards,  and  with  swinish  phrase 
Soil  our  addition ;  and,  indeed,  it  takes 
From  our  achievements,  though   perform'd   at 

height, 
The  pith  and  marrow  of  our  attribute. 
So,  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men. 
That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  them. 
As,  in  their  birth,  (wherein  they  are  not  guilty 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin,) 
By  their  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion. 
Oft  breaking  down  the  pales  and  forts  of  reason ; 
Or  by  some  habit,  that  too  much  o'er-leavens 
The  form  of  plausive  manners ;  that  these  men, 
Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect; 
Being  natiire's  livery,  or  fortune's  star. 
Their  virtues  else  (be  they  as  pure  as  grace, 
As  infinite  as  man  may  undergo,) 
Shall  in  the  general  censure  take  corruption 
From  that  particular  fault :  The  dram  of  ill 
Doth  all  the  noble  substance  often  dout, 
To  his  own  scandal.''] 

Eiiter  Ghost. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes ! 

"  The  hventy-two  lines  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio,  but 
are  found  in  (inarto  (B). 

^  In  the  qnarto  (S),  this  difficult  passage  is  found  thus  : — 
"  'riiedram  ofeale 
Doth  all  the  noble  svibstance  of  a  douht 
To  his  own  scandal." 
In  another  quarto  we  have.  "  The  dram  of  ease."     The  ori- 
ginal text  is  certainly  corrupt;  and,  amongst  many  conjectural 
emendations,  the  lines  as  we  print  them  seem  to  give  the  clear- 
est meaning.     To  dout  is  to  put  out,  to  extinguish.   Perhaps  we 
might  read,  "  The  dram  of  bale." 

110 


Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend 
us! — 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damn'd. 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from 

heU, 
Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable. 
Thou  com'st  in  such  questionable*  shape, 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee ;  1 11  call  thee,  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane :  O,  answer  me . 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ignorance !  but  tell. 
Why  thy  canoniz'd  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  bm-st  their  cerements !  why  the  sepvdchre, 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-ui'n'd, 
Hath  op'd  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 
To  cast  thee  up  again !    What  may  this  mean, 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon. 
Making  night  hideous;  and  we  fools  of  nature. 
So  horridly  to  shake  oiu'  disposition, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls? 
Say,  why  is  this?  wherefore?  what  should  we  do? 

Hor.  It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous  action 

It  wafts ''  you  to  a  more  removed  ground: 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.  It  will  not  speak;  then  will  I  follow  it. 

Hor.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee ; 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that. 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself  ? 
It  waves  me  forth  again; — I'll  follow  it. 

Hor.  What,  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood, 
my  lord. 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff. 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea? 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason,*^ 
And  draw  you  into  madness?  think  of  it: 

•  Questionahle.  Tlie  general  interpretation  is,  doubtful.  In 
the  first  scene  where  the  Ghost  appears,  Marcellus  says, 
"  Question  it.'"  The  questionable  shape  is  a  shape  capable  of 
being  questioned. 

^  TFaffs.  Here,  and  in  a  subsequent  line,  wafts  appears 
in  the  folio  instead  of  waves  in  the  quarto.  To  ifaft,  is  to  make 
a  waving  motion,  to  sign,  to  beckon, — as  well  as  to  impel  over 
a  wave.     In  Julius  Caesar,  we  have : — 

"  Yet  I  insisted,  yet  you  answer'd  not, 
But  with  an  angry  wafer  of  your  hand 
Gave  sign  for  me  to  leave  you." 

"^  This  is  generally  interpreted,  and  we  think  justly,  "  would 
displace  the  sovereignty  of  your  reason."  King  Charles,  in 
the  '  Icon  Basilike,'  has  the  precise  expression ,  in  this  sense  : — 
"  At  once  to  betray  the  sovereignty  of  reason  in  my  own  soul." 
But  Gilford,  in  a  Note  on  Ben  .Tonsou's  Kew  Inn,  (Vol.  v.  p. 
352,)  gives  a  more  prosaic  interpretation  to  the  passage : — 
"The  critics  have  stumbled  over  a  difficulty  raised  by  tiiem- 
selves.     Sovereignty  is  merely  a  title  of  respect." 


Act  1.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SctNE   V. 


[The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation, 
Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain. 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea. 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath.  *  ] 

Ham.  It  wafts  me  still : — 

Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 
Ham.  Hold  off  your  hand. 

Hor.  Be  rul'd,  yoii  shall  not  go. 
Ham.  My  fate  cries  out. 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve. — 

[Ghost  beckons. 
Still  am  I  call'd; — imhand  me,  gentlemen ; 

\_BreaMng  from  them. 
By  heaven,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets 

me:*"  — 
I  say,  away: — Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

\_Exeunt  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 
Hor.  He  waxes  desperate  with  imagination. 
Mar.  Let's  follow ;  'tis  not  fit  thus  to  obey  him. 
Hor.  Have  after: — ^To  what  issue  will   this 

come? 
Alar.  Something  is  rotten  in  the  state  of  Den- 
mark. 
Hor.  Heaven  will  direct  it. 
Mar.  Nay,  let's  follow  him. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — A  more  remote  Part  of  the  Platform. 

Re-enter  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Where  wilt  thou  lead  me?  speak,  I'll 
go  no  further. 

Ghost.  Mark  me. 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come. 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost! 

Ghost.  Pity  me  not,  butlend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak,  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.  So   art  thou  to  revenge,   when  thou 
shalt  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit; 
Doom'd  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night; 
And,  for  the  day,  confin'd  to  fast  in  fires. 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature. 
Are  burnt  and  purg'd  away.  But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 

•  The  four  lines  in  brackets,  not  in  the  folio,  are  found  in 
<luarto  (B). 
•"  Lets  me— obstructs  me. 


Would  harrow  up  thy  soul;  freeze  thy  young 

blood ; 
Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their 

spheres ; 
Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part. 
And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  an  end. 
Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine ;  * 
But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 
To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood : — List,  Hamlet,  ^  O 

list!— 
If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, — 
Ham.  O  heaven! 
Ghost.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural 

murther. 
Ham.  Miu"ther? 

Ghost.  Murther  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural. 
Ham.  Haste   me   to   know   it;  that   I,    with 

wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt; 

And  duller  should'st  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  wharf,  *= 
Would'st  thou  not  stir  in  this.  Now  Hamlet,  hear : 
'Tis  given  out,  that  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abus'd :  but  know,  thou  noble  youth. 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life, 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  O  my  prophetic  soul!  mine  imcle! 
Ghost.  Ay,    that   incestuous,  that  advdterate 

beast. 
With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts, 
(O  wicked  wit,  and  gifts,  that  have  the  power 
So  to  seduce!)  won  to  his  shameful  lust 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen : 
O,  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-ofF  was  there ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity, 
That  it  went  hand  in  hand  even  with  the  vow 
I  made  to  her  in  marriage;  and  to  decline 
Upon  a  wretch,  whose  natm-al  gifts  were  poor 
To  those  of  mine ! 

But  virtue,  as  it  never  will  be  mov'd. 
Though  lewdness  com't  it  in  a  shape  of  heaven ; 
So  lust,  though  to  a  radiant  angel  link'd. 
Will  sate  itself  in  a  celestial  bed, 
And  prey  on  garbage. 

■  Porcupine.    In  all  the  old  copies,  potpentine. 

^  So  the  folio.  List,  list,  0,  list,  is  the  readiug  of  the 
quarto  (B). 

o  Whiter,  in  his  very  curious  Etj'mological  Dictionary, 
speaking  of  this  passage,  in  connexion  witli  the  theory  o(  ease 
belonging  to  the  idea  of  being  earthed, — fixed,  resting, — says, 
"  It  is  curious  that  Shakspere  uses  ease  as  connected  with  a 
term  which  most  strongly  expresses  the  idea  of  being  Jixed  in 
a  certain  spot,  or  earth." 

Ill 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  V. 


But  soft!  metliinks,  I  scent  the  moniing's  air; 
Brief  let  me  be: — Sleeping  within  mine  orchard, 
My  custom  always  in  the  afternoon, 
Upon  my  secure  hovu"  thy  uncle  stole. 
With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon^  in  a  vial, 
And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 
The  leperous  distilment;  whose  effect 
Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man, 
That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  covu'ses  through 
The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body ; 
And,  with  a  sudden  vigour,  it  doth  posset 
And  curd,  like  aigre*  droppings  into  milk. 
The  thin  and  wholesome  blood :  so  did  it  mine  ; 
And  a  most  instant  tetter  bak'd*"  about, 
Most  lazar-like,  with  vile  and  loathsome  crust, 
All  my  smooth  body. 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand. 
Of  life,  of  crown,  and  queen,  at  once  despatch'd; 
Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 
Unhousel'd,  disappointed,  imanerd;'^ 
No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 
With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head : 
O,  horrible  !  O,  horrible  !  most  horrible  !  "^ 
If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not  ; 
Let  not  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be 
A  couch  for  luxury  and  damned  incest. 
But,  howsoever  thou  pursu'st  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
Against  thy  mother  aught ;  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  prick  and  sting  her.  Fare  thee  well  at  once  ! 
The  glow  worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near, 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  uneffectual  fire : 
Adieu,  adieu,  Hanilet !  ^  remember  me.     \^ExiL 
Ham.  O  all  you  host  of  heaven  !  O  earth ! 
What  else  ? 
And  shall  I  coiiple  hell?— O  fye!— Hold,  my 

heart ; 
And  you,  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old. 
But  bear  me  stiffly  up  !  —Remember  thee  ? 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Remember  thee  ? 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 

»  Aigre.  So  the  folio;  the  quartos,  eager.  Tlie  word  is 
certainly  used  in  a  tecluiical  seuse  in  the  folio.  It  is  spelt 
with  a  capital,  Aygre;  while  eager  la  the  common  sense  of 
sharp,  in  the  pjissage, 

"  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air," 
has  the  familiar  orthograpliy. 

^  Bak'd,  in  the  folio;  in  quartos,  harVd. 

"  These  words  describe  the  last  offices  which  -were  per- 
formed to  tlie  dying.  To  housel,  is  to  "  minister  the  com- 
munion to  one  who  lyeth  on  his  death-bed."  Disappointed, 
is,  not  appointed,  nut  prepared.  Unanet'd,  is,  witliout  the 
administration  of  extreme  unction,  which  was  called  anoiling. 

^  This  line,  in  all  the  old  copies,  is  given  to  the  Ghost ;  biit 
it  w.os  always  sjxjken  by  Garrick,  in  his  character  of  Hamlet, 
as  belonging  to  the  Prince  according  to  sbige  tradition. 

»  So  the  folio.    The  quartos  read  "^diew,  nrficu,  arftca." 

112 


All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past. 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 
Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmix'd  with  baser  matter :  yes,  yes,  by  heaven. 
O  most  pernicious  woman  ! 

0  villain,  villain,  smiling,  damned  villain  ! 

My  tables,  my  tables, — meet  it  is  I  set  it  down, 
That  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain  ; 
At  least  I'm  sure  it  may  be  so  in  Denmark ; 

[  Writing. 
So,  uncle,  there  you  are.     Now  to  my  word ; 
It  is.  Adieu,  adieu  !  remember  me. 

1  have  sworn 't. 

Hor.  [  Within.']  My  lord,  my  lord, — 
Mar.  [  Within.]  Lord  Hamlet, — 
Hor.  [  Within.]  Heaven  secure  him ! 

Mar.  *  [  Withi7i.]  So  be  it ! 

Hor.  [  Within.]  lUo,  ho,  ho,  my  lord ! 
Ham.  Hillo,  ho,  ho,  boy !  come,  bird,  come. 

Enter  Horatio  and  Marcellus. 

Mar.  How  is't,  my  noble  lord? 
Hor.  What  news,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  O,  wonderful ! 
Hor.  Good  my  lord,  tell  it. 

Ham.  No ; 

You'll  reveal  it. 

Hor.  Not  I,  my  lord,  by  heaven. 
Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  How  say   you   then ;    would   heart  of 
man  once  think  it? 
But  you'll  be  seci-et, — 

Hor.  Mar.  Ay,  by  heaven,  my  lord. 

Ham.  There's  ne'er  a  villain,  dwelling  in  all 
Denmark, 
But  he's  an  arrant  knave. 

Hor.  There  needs  no  ghost,  my  lord,  come 
from  the  grave, 
To  tell  us  this. 

Ham.  Why,  right ;  you  are  in  the  right ; 

And  so,  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 
I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands,  and  part ; 
You,  as  yom'  business  and  desire  shall  point  you — 
For  every  man  has  business  and  desire. 
Such  as  it  is, — and  for  mine  own  poor  part, 
Look  you,  I'll  go  pray. 

Hor.  These  are  but  wild  and  hurling  ^  words, 

my  lord. 
Ham.  I'm    sorry  they  offend  you,    heartily ; 
Yes,  'faith,  heartily. 

Hor.  There's  no  offence,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Yes,  by  St.  Patrick,  but  there  is,  my  lord. 

'In  the  quartos,  this  exclamation  is  given  to  Ilamlct, 
^  Hurling,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  whurling. 


Act  I.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[ScKNK    V 


And  much  offence  too,  touching  tliis  vision  here. 
It  is  an  honest  ghost,  that  let  me  tell  you  ; 
For  your  desire  to  know  what  is  between  us, 
O'ermasteritasyoumay.  And  now,  good  friends, 
As  you  are  friends,  scholars,  and  soldiers. 
Give  me  one  poor  request. 

Hor.  What  is't,  my  lord  ? 

We  will. 

Ham.  Never  make  known  what  you  have  seen 

to-night. 
Hor.  Mar.  My  lord,  we  will  not. 
Ham.  Nay,  but  swear't. 

Hor.  In  faith. 

My  lord,  not  I. 

Mar.  Nor  I,  my  lord,  in  faith. 

Ham.  Upon  my  sword.  ? 
Mar.  We  have  sworn,  my  lord,  already. 

Ham.  Indeed,  upon  my  sword,  indeed. 
Ghost.  [^Beneath^  Swear. 
Ham.  Ha,  ha,  boy !  say'st  thou  so  ?  art  thou 
there,  tniepenny  ? 
Come  on, — you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage, — 
Consent  to  swear. 

Hor.  Propose  the  oath,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  seen, 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  \_Beneath.']  Swear. 
Ham.  Hie   et  ubiqiie  ?  then   we'll   shift  om* 
ground : — 
Come  hither,  gentlemen, 
And  lay  your  hands  again  upon  my  sword  : 
Never  to  speak  of  this  that  you  have  heard. 
Swear  by  my  sword. 

Ghost.  [^Be7ieat.h.']     Swear. 
Ha7n.  Well  said,  old  mole !  can'st  work  i'the 
ground  so  fast  ? 
A  worthy  pioneer!  —  Once  more  remove,  good 
friends. 


Hor.  O  day  and  night,  but  tliis  is  wondrous 

strange ! 
Ham.  And  therefore   as  a   stranger   give   it 

welcome. 
There   are  more  things  in   heaven   and   earth, 

Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy. 

But  come ; 

Here,  as  before,  never,  so  help  you  mercy ! 
How  strange  or  odd  soe'er  I  bear  myself. 
As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on — 
That  you,  at  such  times  seeing  me,  never  shall 
With  arms  encumber'd  thus,  or  thus  head  shake. 
Or  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 
As,   "Well,  we  know;" — or,  "We  could,  an  if 

we  would; " — 
Or,  "If  we  list  to  speak;" — or,  "There  be,  an 

if  there  might;  " — 
Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
That  you  know  aught  of  me  : — This  not  to  do, 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you. 
Swear.  ^ 

Ghost.  {^Beneath.']  Swear. 
Hum.  Rest,  rest,  perturbed  spirit!     So,  gen- 
tlemen. 
With  all  my  love  I  do  commend  me  to  you : 
And  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Hamlet  is 
May  do,  to  express  his  love  and  friending  to  you, 
God   willing,    shall   not  lack.      Let  us   go   in 

together ; 
And  still  your  fingers  on  your  lips,  I  pray. 
The  time  is  out  of  joint; — O  cm-sed  spite  ! 
That  ever  I  was  born  to  set  it  right ! 
Nay,  come,  let's  go  together.  [Exeunt. 


»  We  print  the  passage  as  in  the  folio.  The  ordinary  readinji 
is  by  no  means  so  plain  : 

"  This  do  ytju  swear. 
So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you." 


[Danish  Standard,  &c.] 


113 


['  Hyperion  to  a  Satyr.'] 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT   I. 


'  Scene  I. — "  The  cock  that  is  the  trumpet  to  the 
morn,'"  8fc. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  we  think,  that  this  fine 
description  is  founded  upon  some  similar  description 
in  the  Latin  language.    The  peculiar  sense  of  the 
words  extravagant,  erring,  confine,  points  to  such  a 
source.     The  first  hymn    of  Prudentius  has   some 
similarity ;  but  Douce  has  also  found  in  the  Salis- 
bury collection  of  Hymns,  printed  by  Pynson,   a 
passage  from  a  hymn  attributed  to  St.  Ambrose,  in 
whicli  the  images  may  be  more  distinctly  traced : 
"  Preco  diei  jam  sonat. 

Noctis  profundae  pervigil ; 

Noctiirna  lux  ■viantibus, 

A  nocte  noctem  segrogans. 

Hoc  excitatus  Lucifer, 

Solvit  polum  caligitie ; 

Hoc  omnis  errovum  chorus 

Viam  uoceudi  deserit. 

Gallo  canente  spes  redit,"  &c. 

*  Scene  I. — "  But,  look,  the  morn,'"  8(c. 
Caldecott,  whose  edition  of  Hamlet  is  greatly 
superior  to  any  of  its  predecessors,  sometimes  falls 
into  that  fault-finding  tone  by  which  most  Shak- 
sperian  critics  assert  their  occasional  superiority  over 
their  author :  "  The  almost  momentary  appearance 
of  the  ghost,  and  the  short  conversations  preceding 
and  subsequent  to  it,  could  not  have  filled  up  the 
long  interval  of  a  winter's  night  in  Denmark,  from 
twelve  till  morning."  Such  is  Mr.  Caldecott's 
objection  to  this  scene.  But  how  does  he  know  that 
it  was  a  tcinter's  night?  Francesco,  indeed,  says 
"  'tis  bitter  cold;"  but  even  in  the  nights  of  the 
early  summer  of  the  north  of  Europe,  during  the 
short  interval  between  twilight  and  sunrise,  "  the 
air  bites  shrewdly."  That  this  was  the  season 
intended  by  Shakspere  is  indicated  by  Ophelia's 
flowers.  Her  pansies,  her  columbines,  and  her 
daisies  belong  not  to  the  winter ;  and  her  "  coronet 
114 


weeds"  were  the  field-flowers  of  the  latter  spring, 
hung  upon  the  willow  in  full  foliage, 

"  That  shows  his  lioar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream." 


^  Scene  II. 


"  more  than  the  scope 


Of  these  dilated  articles  allow." 
This  grammatical  impropriety,  as  we  now  call 
it,  was  a  common  license  of  the  best  authors  of 
Shakspere's  age.  The  use  of  the  plural  verb  with 
the  nominative  singular,  a  plural  genitive  inter- 
vening, can  scarcely  be  detected  as  an  error,  even 
by  those  who  consider  the  peculiar  phraseology  of 
the  time  of  Elizabeth  as  a  barbarism,  and  are  apt  to 
call  out  upon  Shakspere  as  a  monstrous  violator  of 
grammar.  The  truth  is,  that  it  is  only  within  the 
last  half  century  that  the  construction  of  our  lan- 
guage has  attained  that  uniform  precision  which  is 
now  required.  We  find  in  all  the  old  dramatists 
many  such  lines  as  this  in  Marlow  : — 

"  The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn." 
And  too  many  such  lines  have  been  corrected  by  the 
editors  of  Shakspere,  who  have  thus  obliterated  the 
traces  of  our  tongue's  history.  It  is  remarkable 
that  the  very  commentators,  who  were  always  ready 
to  fix  the  charge  of  ignorance  of  the  rudiments  of 
grammar  upon  Shakspere,  have  admitted  the  fol- 
lowing passage  in  a  note  to  Henry  IV.,  Part  II.,  by 
that  elegant  modern  scholar  T.  Warton :  "  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher's  play  contains  many  satirical 
strokes  against  Heywood's  comedy,  the  force  of 
which  are  entirely  lost  to  those  who  have  not  seen 
that  comedy." 

*  Scene  II. — "  Hyperion  to  a  satyr." 
The  figures  which  we  have  selected  from  two 
paintings  of  antiquity,  engraved  in  Landon's 
'  Peintres  les  plus  Celebres,'  (Paris,  1813),  happily 
illustrate  the  text.  Warburtonsays,  "By  the  satyr 
is  meant  Pan,  as  by  Hyperion,  Apollo.  Pan  and 
Apollo  were  brothers;  and  the  allusion  is  to  the 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


contention  between  those  gods  for  the  preference 
in  music."  Stecvens,  on  the  other  hand,  believes 
that  Sliakspere  "  has  no  allusion  in  the  present 
instance,  except  to  the  beauty  of  Apollo,  and  its 
immediate  opposite,  the  deformitj"  of  a  satyr." 
Farmer  is  careful  to  point  out  the  error  in  quantity 
in  Shakspere's  Hyperion ;  but  he  candidly  admits 
that  Spenser  has  committed  the  same  error.  Gray, 
whose  scholarship  would  have  commanded  Farmer's 
approbation,  if  he  could  not  appreciate  his  poetry, 
has  this  line  : — 

"  Hyperion's  march  aud  glittering  shafts  of  war." 
The  commentators  have   only  found   one   solitary 
instance   of  Hyperion   amongst   the   poets   of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

'  Scene  III. — "  The  king  doth  wake  to-nic/ht,^'  8)-c. 

This  passage,  descriptive  of  Danish  intemperance, 
occurs  without  alteration  in  the  quarto  of  1603.  In 
the  augmented  edition  of  1604,  we  find  added,  the 
twenty-two  lines  beginning — 

"  This  hea\'y-headed  revel,  east  and  west. 
Makes  us  ti-aduc'd,  and  tax'd  of  other  nations." 

The  drunkenness  thus  attributed  to  the  Danes  in 
the  original  passage  is  qualified  in  the  additional 
lines.  It  takes  from  "achievements;"  it  is  the 
"  one  defect" — "  the  dram  of  ill."  This  circum- 
stance, which  we  have  not  seen  noticed,  is  to  our 
minds  singularly  indicative  of  Shakspere's  cha- 
racter. James  I.  came  to  the  English  throne  in 
1603 ;  his  queen  was  Anne  of  Denmark.  The  in- 
temperance of  the  Danish  court  was  well  known  to 
all  Europe.  Howell,  who  visited  Denmark  at  the 
beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  thus  describes 
the  "rouse"  and  the  "wassels,"  in  his  letters: — "  I 
made  a  Latin  speech  to  the  king  of  Denmark" 
(Christian  IV.,  uncle  of  Anne,  queen  of  James) 
"  on  the  embassy  of  my  lord  of  Leicester,  who  at- 
tended him  at  Rheynsburg,  in  Holsteinland.  The 
king  feasted  my  lord  once,  and  it  lasted  from  eleven 
of  the  clock  till  towards  the  evening,  during  which 
time  the  king  began  thirt3'-five  healths :  the  first  to 
the  emperor,  the  second  to  his  nephew  of  England  ; 
and  so  went  over  all  the  kings  and  queens  of 
Christendom,  but  he  never  remembered  the  Prince 
Palsgrave's  health,  or  his  niece's,  all  the  while. 
The  king  was  taken  aivay  at  last  in  his  chai>\"  This 
same  kingly  lover  of  the  "  heavy-headed  revel" 
visited  England  soon  after  James'  accession  to  tlie 
throne  ;  and  the  effects  of  this  visit  upon  the  national 
maimers  are  thus  described  in  a  letter  of  Sir  John 
Harrington,  1606: — "  From  the  day  the  Danish 
king  came,  until  this  hour,  I  have  been  well  nigh 
overwhelmed  with  carousal,  and  sports  of  all  kinds. 
.  .  .  •  I  think  the  Dane  hath  strangely  wrought 
on  our  good  English  nobles ;  for  tliose  whom  I 
never  could  get  to  taste  good  liquor,  now  follow  the 
fashion,  and  wallow  in  beastly  delights.  The  ladies 
abandon  their  sobriety,  and  are  seen  to  roll  about 
in  intoxication.  I  do  often  say  (but  not  aloud) 
that  the  Danes  have  again  conquered  the  Britains ; 
for  I  see  no  man,  or  woman  either,  that  can  now 
command  himself  or  herself."     Sir  John  Harring- 


ton, it  seems,  did  not  venture  to  say  a/ond  what  he 
thought  of  these  habits ;  and  for  tlie  same  reason 
Shakspere's  strong  description  of  the  custom — 
"  More  honour'd  in  tlie  breach  than  tlio  observance" — 
might  have  given  ofTence  to  the  court  of  the  new 
monarch.  But  he  did  not  suppress  the  description. 
He  made  it  only  less  severe  by  a  tolerant  exposi- 
tion of  the  mode  in  wliich  one  ill  quality  destroys 
the  lustre  of  many  good  ones.  It  is  remarkable 
that  tliis  additional  passage  was  omitted  in  the  folio 
of  1623,  published  after  tlie  deatli  of  Anne  of  Den- 
mark. 

^  Scene  V. — "  With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon.^' 
Dr.  Grey  thinks  that  hebenoti  was  a  poetical  modi- 
fication of  henbane.  Our  indigenous  henbane  (hyos- 
cyamus  niger)  is  well  known  in  medicine  for  its 
soothing  and  narcotic  properties ;  and  a  large  dose, 
no  doubt,  would  be  poisonous.  That  it  was  con- 
sidered as  a  poison  in  Shakspere's  time,  we  have 
sufficient  evidence.  In  Drayton's  '  Barons'  Wars,' 
we  have — 

"  The  pois'ning  henbane,  and  the  mandrake  dread." 
It  was  a  belief,  also,  even  of  the  medical  professors 
of  that  day,  that  poison  might  be  introduced  into 
the  system  by  being  poured  into  the  ear.  Ambrose 
Pare,  the  celebrated  French  surgeon,  was  charged 
with  having  administered  poison  in  this  way  to 
Francis  II.  It  is,  however,  by  no  means  clear  that, 
by  hebeno?i,  Shakspere  means  henba?2e.  In  Marlow's 
'  Jew  of  Malta '  we  have,  amongst  an  enumeration 
of  noxious  things,  "  the  juice  of  hebon^'  (ebony)  ; 
and  much  earlier,  in  Gower's  'Confessio  Amantis,' 
we  find  the  couch  of  the  god  of  sleep  made  of  the 
boards 

"  Of  Hebenus,  that  sleepie  tree." 

''  Scene  V. — "  Upoti  my  sword." 
Warburton  has  observed  that  here  "  the  poet  has 
preserved  the  manners  of  the  ancient  Danes,  with 
whom  it  was  religion  to  swear  upon  their  swords ;" 
and  for  the  support  of  his  opinion  he  refers  to  Bar- 
tholinus,  De   causis  contempt,    mort.   apud   Dan. 
Upton  says  that  Jordanes,  in  his  Gothic  History, 
mentions  this  custom  ;  and  that  Ammianus  Marcel- 
linus  relates  the  same  ceremony  among  the  Huns. 
Farmer   is,    of  course,    indignant  tliat   Shakspere 
should  be  supposed  to  know  anything  beyond  what 
he  found  in  the  common  literature  of  his  day;  and 
he  cites  the  following  from  the  play  of  H  ieronymo : 
"  Swear  ou  this  cross,  that  what  thou  say'st  is  true^ 
But  if  I  prove  thee  peijur'd  aud  unjust. 
This  very  sword,  whereon  thou  took'st  thine  oath, 
Shall  be  the  worker  of  thy  tragedy !" 
The  commentators  all  follow  Farmer  in  the  expla- 
nation, that  to  swear  by  the  sword,  was  to  swear  by 
the  cross  formed  by  the  hilt  of  the  sword ;  but  they 
suppress  a  line    which   Upton   had    quoted  from 
Spenser, 

"  And  swearing  faith  to  either  on  his  blade." 
We  have  little  doubt  that  Shakspere  was  aware  of  the 
peculiar  custom  of  the  Gothic  nations,  and  did  not 
make  Hamlet  propose  the  oath  merely  as  a  practice 
of  chivalry. 

115 


vV  ';; 


[Palace  of  Rosenljerg.] 

ACT  II. 


SCENE  I. — yl  Room  in  Polonius'  House. 

Enter  Polonius  and  Reynaldo. 

Pul.  Give  him  his   money,  and  these  notes, 

Reynaldo. 
Rey.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Pol.  You  shall   do  marvellous  wisely,   good 
Reynaldo, 
Before  you  visit  him,  to  make  inquiry 
Of  his  behaviour. 

Rey.  My  lord,  I  did  intend  it. 

Pol.  Marry,  well  said :  very  well  said.    Look 
you,  sir, 
Inquire  me  first  what  Danskers''  are  in  Paris ; 
And  how,  and  who,  what  means,  and  where  they 

keep, 
What  company,  at  what  expence  ;  and  finding, 
By  this  encompassment  and  drift  of  question. 
That  they  do  know  my  son,  come  you   more 
nearer 

=  In  Warner's  '  Albion's  England,'  Danshe  is  given  as  the 
iincieut  name  of  Denmark. 

116 


Than  your  particular  demands  will  touch  it : 
Take  you,  as  'twere,  some  distant  knowledge  of 

him ; 
As  thus, — '  I  know  his  father,  and  his  friends. 
And,  in  part,  him ; ' — Do  you  mark  this,  Rey- 
naldo ? 
Rey.  Ay,  very  well,  my  lord. 
Pol.  '  And,  in  part,  him  ; — but,'  you  may  say, 
'  not  well : 
But,  if 't  be  he  I  mean,  he's  very  wild ; 
Addicted  so  and  so ;  ' — and  there  pvit  on  him 
What   forgeries   you  please ;     marry,   none   so 

rank 
As  may  dishonoiu:  him  ;  take  heed  of  that ; 
But,  sir,  such  wanton,  wild,  and  usual  slips, 
As  are  companions  noted  and  most  known 
To  youth  and  liberty. 

Rey.  As  gaming,  my  lord. 

Pol.  Ay,  or  drinking,  fencing,  swearing,  quar- 
relling, 
Drabbing  : — You  may  go  so  far. 

Rey.  My  lord,  that  would  dishonour  him. 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCENK    I. 


Pol.  'Faith,  no ;  as  j'ou  may  season  it  in  tlie 
charge. 
You  must  not  put  another  scandal  on  him, 
That  he  is  open  to  incontinency  ; 
Tliat's  not  my  meaning  :  but  breathe  his  faults 

so  quaintly, 
That  they  may  seem  the  taints  of  liberty  : 
The  flash  and  out-break  of  a  fiery  mind ; 
A  savageness  in  unreclaimed  blood. 
Of  general  assault. 

Rey.  But,  my  good  lord, — 

Pol.  Wherefore  should  you  do  this  ? 
Rey.  Ay,  my  lord, 

I  woidd  know  that. 

Pol.  Many,  sir,  here's  my  drift ; 

And,  I  believe,  it  is  a  fetch  of  warrant : 
You  laying  these  slight  sullies  on  my  son, 
As  'twere  a  thing  a  little  soil'd  i'the  working, 
Mark  you, 

Yom-  party  in  converse,  him  you  would  sovmd. 
Having  ever  seen,  in  the  prenominate  crimes. 
The  youth  you  breath  of,  giulty,  be  assur'd. 
He  closes  with  you  in  this  consequence ; 
'  Good  sir,'  or  so  ;  or,  '  friend,  or  gentleman,' — 
According  to  the  phrase  and  the  addition. 
Of  man,  and  coimtry. 

Rey.  Very  good,  my  lord. 

Pol.  And  then,  sir,  does  he  this, — He  does — 
What  was  I  about  to  say  ? 
I  was  about  to  say  something: — Where  did  I 

leave  ? 
,    Rey.  At,  '  closes  in  the  consequence. 
At  friend,  or  so,  and  gentleman.' 

Pol.    At,  closes  in   the   consequence,  —  Ay, 
marry; 
He  closes  with  you  thus : — '  I   know  the  gen- 
tleman ; 
I  saw  him  yesterday,  or  t'other  day, 
Or  then,  or  then  ;  with  such,  and  such  ;  and,  as 

you  say. 
There  was  he  gaming ;  there  o'ertook  in  his  rouse : 
There  falling  out  at  tennis ;  or,  perchance, 
I  saw  him  enter  such  a  house  of  sale 
(Videlicet,  a  brothel,)  or  so  forth. — 
See  you  now ; 

Your  bait  of  falsehood  takes  this  carp  of  truth  : 
And  thus  do  we  of  wisdom  and  of  reach. 
With  mndlaces,  and  with  assays  of  bias. 
By  indirections  find  directions  out ; 
So,  by  my  former  lecture  and  advice. 
Shall  you  my  son  :  You  have  me,  have  you  not  ? 
Rey.  My  lord,  I  have. 

Pol.  God  be  wi'  you ;  fare  you  well. 

Rey.  Good  my  lord, — 
Tragkdies. — Vol.  I.  U 


Pol.  Observe  his  inclination  in  yourself. 
Rey.  I  shall,  my  lord. 
Pol.  And  let  him  ply  his  music. 
Rey-  Well,  my  lord. 

\_Exit. 

Enter  Ophelia. 

Pol.  Farewell!— How  now,  Ophelia?  what's 

the  matter? 
Oph.  Alas,  my  lord,  I  have  been  so  aflrighted! 
Pol.  With  what,  in  the  name  of  heaven  ? 
Oph.  My  lord,  as  I  was  sewing  in  my  chamber,  * 
Lord  Hamlet,— with  his  doublet  all  unbrac'd  ; 
No  hat  upon  his  head  ;  his  stockings  foul'd, 
Ungarter'd,  and  down-gyved  to  his  ancle ; 
Pale  as  his  shirt ;  his  knees  knocking  each  other ; 
And  \vitli  a  look  so  piteous  in  piu-jiort, 
As  if  he  had  been  loosed  out  of  hell. 
To  speak  of  horrors, — he  comes  before  me. 
Pol.  Mad  for  thy  love  ? 

Opli.  My  lord,  I  do  not  know  •, 

But,  truly,  I  do  fear  it. 

Pol.  What  said  he  ? 

Opli.  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me 
hard ; 
Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm ; 
And,  with  his  other  hand  thus,  o'er  his  brow 
He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face. 
As  he  would  draw  it.     Long  stay'd  he  so ; 
At  last, — a  little  shaking  of  mine  ann. 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down, — 
He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound. 
That  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk. 
And  end  his  being  :  That  done,  he  lets  me  go  : 
And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  tvu-n'd, 
He  seem'd  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes ; 
For  out  o'doors  he  went  without  their  help. 
And,  to  the  last,  bended  their  light  on  me. 

Pol.  Go  with  me ;  I  will  go  seek  the  king. 
This  is  the  very  ecstasy  of  love  ; 
Whose  violent  property  foredoes''  itself. 
And  leads  the  will  to  desperate  undertakings, 
As  oft  as  any  passion  under  heaven. 
That  does  afflict  our  natiu'es.     I  am  sorry,— 
What,  have  you  given  him  any  hard  words  of  late? 
Oph.  No,   my  good  lord ;    but,    as  you   did 
command, 
I  did  repel  his  letters,  and  denied 
His  access  to  me. 

Pol.  That  hath  made  him  mad. 

I  am  sony  that  with  better  heed  and  judgment, 
I  had  not  quoted •=  him  :  I  fear'd,  he  did  but  trifle. 


*  Chamher,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  closet. 
^  Forediics — destroys — untloes. 
•■•  Quoted — observed,  noted. 


117 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


And  meant  to  wreck  thee ;    but,  beslirew  my 

jealousy ! 
It  seems  it  is  as  proper  to  our  age 
To  cast  beyond  ourselves  in  ovir  opinions, 
As  it  is  common  for  the  younger  sort 
To  lack  discretion.     Come,  go  we  to  the  king : 
This  must  be  known ;  which,  being  kept  close, 

might  move 
More  grief  to  hide  than  hate  to  utter  love. 

[^Exetmt. 

SCENE  11.—^  Boom  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Kino,  Queen,  Rosencrantz,  Guilden- 

sTERN,  and  Attendants. 

King.  Welcome,  dear  Rosencrantz,  and  Guil- 
den  stern! 
Moreover  that  we  much  did  long  to  see  you, 
The  need  we  have  to  vise  you  did  provoke 
Our  hasty  sending.     Something  have  you  heard 
Of  Hamlet's  transformation ;  so  I  call  it, 
Since  not  the  exterior  nor  the  inward  man 
Resembles  that  it  was :  What  it  shovild  be. 
More  than  his  father's  death,  that  thub  hath  put 

him 
So  much  from  the  understanding  of  himself, 
I  cannot  deem*  of:  I  entreat  you  both. 
That,  being  of  so  yoimg  days  brought  up  with 

him. 
And,  since,  so  neighbour'd  to  his  youth  and  hu- 
mour, ^ 
That  you  vouchsafe  your  rest  here  in  our  court 
Some  little  time :  so  by  your  companies 
To  draw  him  on  to  pleasiu-es ;  and  to  gather. 
So  much  as  from  occasions  you  may  glean, 
[Whether  aught,  to  us  imknown,  afflicts  him 

thus,'=] 
That,  open'd,  lies  within  our  remedy. 

Queen.  Good  gentlemen,  he  liath  much  talk'd 
of  you; 
And,  sure  I  am,  two  men  there  are  not  living 
To  whom  he  more  adheres.     If  it  will  please  you 
To  show  us  so  much  gentry  and  good  will, 
As  to  expend  your  time  with  us  a  while. 
For  the  supply  and  profit  of  our  hope, 
Your  visitation  shall  receive  such  thanks 
As  fits  a  king's  remembrance. 

Ros.  Both  your  majesties 

Might,  by  the  sovereign  power  you  have  of  us. 
Put  your  dread  pleasures  more  into  command 
Than  to  entreaty. 

Guil.  We  both  obey; 

=>  Deem,  iu  folio;  in  quartos,  dream. 
^  Humour,  in  folio ;  in  quarto,  /uiviuur. 
"  This  line  is  wanting  in  the  folio. 

118 


And  here  give  up  ourselves,  in  the  fidl  bent, 
To  lay  our  services  freely  at  your  feet, 
To  be  commanded. 

King.  Thanks,  Rosencrantz,  and  gentle  Guil- 

denstern. 
Queen.  Thanks,  Guildenstern,  and  gentle  Ro- 
sencrantz: 
And  I  beseech  you  instantly  to  visit 
My  too  much  changed  son.     Go,  some  of  you, 
And  bring  the  gentlemen  where  Hamlet  is. 
Guil.    Heavens  make  our  presence,  and  our 
practices. 
Pleasant  and  helpful  to  him ! 

Queen.  Amen ! 

\_Exeunt  Rosencrantz,  Guildenstern, 
and  some  Attendants, 

Enter  Polonius. 

Pol.  The  ambassadors  from  Norway,  my  good 
lord, 
Are  joyfully  retum'd. 

King.  Thou  still  hast  been  the  father  of  good 
news, 

Pol.  Have  I,  my  lord?  Assure  you,  my  good 
liege, 
I  hold  my  duty,  as  I  hold  my  soiJ, 
Both  to  my  God,  one"  to  my  gracious  king: 
And  I  do  think,  (or  else  this  brain  of  mine 
Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  siu-e 
As  I  have''  us'd  to  do,)  that  I  have  found 
The  very  cause  of  Hamlet's  lunacy. 

King.  O,  speak  of  that ;  that  I  do  long  to  hear. 

Pol.  Give  first  admittance  to  the  ambassadors ; 
My  news  shall  be  the  fruit*^  to  that  great  feast. 

King.  Thyself  do  grace  to  them,  and  bring 

them  in.  \_Exit  Polonius. 

He  tells  me,  my  sweet  queen,  that  he  hath  found 

The  head  and  soiu'ce  of  all  your  son's  distemper. 

Queen.  I  doubt,  it  is  no  other  but  the  main; 
His  father's  death,  and  our  o'erhasty  marriage. 

Re-enter  Polonius,  with  Voltimand  and  Cor- 
nelius. 

King.    Well,   we   shall  sift  him. — Welcome, 
good  friends! 

»  One.  This  is  the  readingin  the  folio, — meaning  that  Polo- 
nius holds  that  his  duiy  to  his  king  is  an  obligation  as  iinjie- 
rative  as  his  duty  to  his  God,  to  whom  his  soul  is  subject.  The 
quartos  read : — 

"  Both  to  my  God  and  to  my  gracious  king." 

•>  I  have  us'd,  in  folio ;  in  quai'to,  it  hath  us'd. 

°  Fruit.  So  the  quartos — the  neu's  of  Polonius  shall  follow 
the  message  of  the  ambassadors,  as  fruit  after  meat.  The  folio 
reads : — 

"  My  news  shall  be  the  news  to  that  great  feast." 
Caldecott  iutorprots  this — my  news  shall  be  the  leading  topic. 
We  tire  inclined  to  think  that  news  was  reiioated,  by  a  typogra- 
phical error  not  uncommon. 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Say,  Voltimand,  what  from   our  brother   Nor- 
way? 
Volt.  Most  fair  return  of  greetings  and  desires. 
Upon  our  first,  he  sent  out  to  supjjress 
His  nephew's  levies,  which  to  him  appear'd 
To  be  a  preparation  'gainst  the  Polack; 
But,  better  look'd  into,  he  truly  found 
It  was  against  j'our  highness :  Whereat  griev'd, — 
That  so  his  sickness,  age,  and  impotence. 
Was  falsely  borne  in  hand, — sends  out  ai'rests 
On  Fortinbi'as,  which  he,  in  brief,  obeys ; 
Receives  rebuke  from  Norway ;  and,  in  fine. 
Makes  vow  before  his  uncle,  never  more 
To  give  the  assay  of  arms  against  your  majesty. 
Whereon  old  Norway,  overcome  with  joy, 
Gives  him  three  thousand  crowns  in  annual  fee; 
And  his  commission,  to  employ  those  soldiers, 
So  levied  as  before,  against  the  Polack: 
With  an  entreaty,  herein  further  shown, 

[  Gives  a  paper. 
That  it  might  please  you  to  give  quiet  pass 
Through  your  dominions  for  his  enterprize; 
On  such  regards  of  safety,  and  allowance, 
As  therein  are  set  down. 

King.  It  likes  us  well  ; 

And,  at  our  more  consider'd  time,  we'll  read. 
Answer,  and  think  upon  this  business. 
Mean  time,  we  thank  you  for  your  well-took  la- 
bour : 
Go  to  yom-  rest;  at  night  we'll  feast  together: 
Most  welcome  home ! 

[_Exeunt  Voltimand  and  Cornelius. 
Pol.  This  business  is  very  well  ended. 

My  liege,  and  madam,  to  expostulate 
What  majesty  should  be,  what  duty  is. 
Why  day  is  day,  night,  niglit,  and  time  is  time. 
Were  nothing  but  to  waste  night,  day,  and  time. 
Therefore,  since  brevity  is  the  soul  of  wit, 
And  tediousness  the  limbs  and  outward  flomishes, 
I  will  be  brief:  Your  noble  son  is  mad: 
Mad  call  I  it:  for,  to  define  true  madness, 
What  is't,  but  to  be  nothing  else  but  mad: 
But  let  that  go. 

Queen.  More  matter,  with  less  art. 

Pol.  Madam,  I  swear,  I  use  no  art  at  all. 
That  he  is  mad,  'tis  true :  'tis  true,  'tis  pity ; 
And  pity  'tis,  'tis  true :  a  foolish  figure ; 
But  farewell  it,  for  I  will  use  no  art. 
Mad  let  us  grant  him  then :  and  now  remains. 
That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect ; 
Or,  rather  say,  the  cause  of  this  defect ; 
For  this  effect,  defective,  comes  by  cause : 
Thus  it  remains,  and  the  remainder  thus. 
Perjiend. 
I  have  a  daughter ;  have,  whilst  she  is  mine ; 


Who,  in  her  duty  and  obedience,  mark. 

Hath  given  me  this :  Now  gather,  and  surmise. 

— '  To  the  celestial,  and  my  soul's  idol,  the  most  bejiutilicd 
Oplielia,' 

That's  an  ill  phrase,  a  vile  phrase;  beautified  is 
a  vile  phrase ;  ="  but  you  shall  hear. 

'  Tlicse.    In  her  excellent  wlute  bosom,  these.'  •> 

Queen.  Came  this  from  Hamlet  to  her  ? 
Pol.  Good  madam,  stay  awhile;    I   will  be 
faithful. 


'  Doubt  thou,  the  stars  are  fire  ; 

Doubt,  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar ; 
But  never  doubt,  I  love. 


[Reads. 


O  dear  Ophelia,  I  am  ill  at  these  numbers;  I  have  not  art 
to  reckon  my  groans :  but  that  I  love  thee  best,  O  most  best, 
believe  it.     Adieu. 

Thine  evermore,  most  dear  lady,  whilst 
this  machine  is  to  him,  Hamlet.' 

This,  in  obedience,  hath  my  daughter  showed  me : 
And  more  above,  hath  his  solicitings. 
As  they  fell  out  by  time,  by  means,  and  place, 
All  given  to  mine  ear. 

King.  But  how  hath  she 

Receiv'd  his  love? 

Pol.  What  do  you  think  of  me? 

King.  As  of  a  man  faithful  and  honoui'able. 

Pol.  I  would  fain  prove  so.     But  what  might 
you  think, 
When  I  had  seen  this  hot  love  on  the  wing, 
(As  I  perceiv'd  it,  I  must  tell  you  that. 
Before  my  daughter  told  me,)  what  might  you, 
Or  my  dear  majesty  your  queen  here,  tliink. 
If  I  had  play'd  the  desk,  or  table-book ; 
Or  given  my  heart  a  winking,  *^  mute  and  dumb ; 
Or  look'd  upon  this  love  with  idle  sight; 
What  might  you  think?  no,  I  went  round  to  work, 
And  my  young  misti-ess  thus  I  did  bespeak ; 
'  Lord  Hamlet  is  a  prince  out  of  thy  star;'^ 
This  must  not  be :'  and  then  I  precepts  gave  her. 
That  she  should  lock  herself  from  his  resort. 
Admit  no  messengers,  receive  no  tokens. 
Which  done,  she  took  the  fruits  of  my  advice ; 
And  he,  repulsed,  (a  short  tale  to  make,) 
Fell  into  a  sadness ;  then  into  a  fast ; 
Thence  to  a  watch;  thence  into  a  weakness; 
Thence  to  a  lightness;  and,  by  this  declension, 

"  Beautified,  according  to  Polonius,  is  a  vile  phrase.  It 
was  the  common  phr;ise  in  dedications  to  ladies  in  Shakspere's 
time: — "To  the  worthily  honoui-ed  and  vertuous  heuutified 
lady,  the  Lady  Anne  Glemnham,"  &c.,  is  found  in  a  volume 
of  Poems,  by  11.  L.,  1596. 

•>  See  Illustrations  to  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  iii. 
Sc.  I. — The  ladies  of  Elizabetli's  day,  and  much  later,  wore  a 
small  pocket  in  the  front  of  their  sfciys. 

■=  JVinUng,  iu  folio ;  in  quartos,  worhing. 

*  Star,  in  folio,  and  iu  the  quartos  {A)  and  (B).  In  the  folio 
of  1632,  star  was  changed  to  sphere,  which  is  the  modern 
reading. 

119 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Into  the  madness  whereon  now  he  raves, 
And  all  we  wail  ^  for. 

King.  Do  you  think  'tis  this? 

Queen.  It  may  be,  very  likely. 

Pol.  Hath  there  been  such  a  time,   (I'd  fain 
know  that,) 
That  I  have  positively  said,  '  Tis  so, 
When  it  prov'd  otherwise? 

King.  Not  that  I  knov/. 

Pol.  Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise : 
[^Pointing  to  his  head  and  shoulder. 
If  circiimstances  lead  me,  I  will  find 
Where  truth  is  hid,  though  it  were  hid  indeed 
Within  the  centre. 

Ki7ig.  How  may  we  try  it  further? 

Pol.  You   know,    sometimes   he   walks   fovu- 
hours  together, 
Here  in  the  lobby. 

Queen.  So  he  has,  *"  indeed. 

Pol.  At  such  a  time  I'll  loose  my  daughter  to 
him: 
Be  you  and  I  behind  an  arras  then; 
Mark  the  encounter :  if  he  love  her  not. 
And  be  not  from  his  reason  fallen  thereon. 
Let  me  be  no  assistant  for  a  state, 
And  keep  a  fanu,  and  carters. 

King.  We  will  try  it. 

Enter  Hamlet,  reading. 

Queen.  But,  look,  where  sadly  the  poor  wretch 
comes  reading. 

Pol.  Away,  I  do  beseech  you,  both  away ; 
I'll  boord*^  him  presently: — O,  give  me  leave. — 
\Exeunt  King,  Queen,  and  Attendants. 
How  does  my  good  lord  Hamlet? 

Ham.  Well,  god-'a-mercy. 

Pol.  Do  you  know  me,  my  loi'd? 

Ham.  Excellent  well ;  you  are  a  fishmonger. 

Pol.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a  man. 

Pol.  Honest,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir;  to  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes, 
is  to  be  one  man  picked  out  of  two''  thousand. 

Pol.  That's  very  true,  my  lord. 

Ham.  For  if  the  sun  breed  maggots  in  a  dead 
dog,  being  a  good  kissing  carrion,^ — Have  you 
a  daughter? 

"  TVail,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  mourn. 

••  Has,  in  folio.  So  he  AasdoBe,  indeed.  The  quarto  reads, 
docs. 

"  Board.  This  is  ordinarily  printed  board,  but  is  sjjelt  hoard 
in  tlie  folio.  Buord,  bourd,  or  board,  is  to  accost;  it  is  also 
to  jeer.  Gifford  says  tliat  to  hoard  is  to  accost ;  (as  explained 
by  Sir  Toby  in  Twelfth  Nifjht,  Act  i.  Sc.  in.)  to  bourd  is  to 
jest;  and  to  baud,  to  pout,  or  appear  sullen.  These  distinc- 
tions of  orthography  are,  however,  very  seldom  preserved. 
(See  Note  on  Catiline,  .lonson's  Works,  Vol.  iv.  p.  221.) 

"•  Two,  in  folio ;  in  quartos,  fen. 

'  The  ordinary  reading,  which  w.is  suggested  by  Warbur- 
120 


Pol.  I  have,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  her  not  walk  i'  the  sun :  conception 
is  a  blessing;  but  not  as  your  daughter  may 
conceive, —friend,  look  to't. 

Pol.  How  say  you  by  that?  {_j4side.']  Still 
harping  on  my  daughter: — yet  he  knew  me  not 
at  first;  he  said  I  was  a  fishmonger:  He  is  far 
gone,  far  gone :  and  truly  in  my  youth  I  suffered 
much  extremity  for  love;  very  near  this.  I'll 
speak  to  him  again. — What  do  yovi  read,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Words,  words,  words! 

Pol.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Between  who? 

Pol.  I  mean  the  matter  that  you  read,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Slanders,  sir:  for  the  satirical  slave 
says  here,  that  old  men  have  grey  beards ;  that 
their  faces  are  wrinkled ;  their  eyes  purging  thick 
amber,  or  plinn-tree  gum ;  and  that  they  have  a 
plentifid  lack  of  wit,  together  with  weak  hams : 
All  of  which,  sir,  though  I  most  powerfully  and 
potently  believe,  yet  I  hold  it  not  honesty  to 
have  it  thus  set  down;  for  you  yourself,  sir, 
shoidd  be  old  as  I  am,  ^  if,  like  a  crab,  you  coiild 
go  backward. 

Pol.  Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there  is 
method  in  it.  \^Aside.^  Will  you  walk  out  of  the 
air,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Into  my  grave? 

Pol.  Indeed,  that  is  out  o'the  air. — How  preg- 
nant sometimes  his  replies  are !  a  happiness  that 
often  madness  hits  on,  which  reason  and  sanity 
could  not  so  prosperously  be  delivered  of.  I  will 
leave  him,  and  suddenly  contrive  the  means  of 
meeting  between  him  and  my  daughter. — My 
honourable  lord,  I  will  humbly  take  my  leave  of 
you. 

Ham.  You  cannot,  sir,  take  from  me  any 
thing  that  I  will  more  willingly  part  withal ;  ex- 
cept my  life,  my  life.  ** 

Pol.  Fare  you  well,  my  lord. 

Ham.  These  tedious  old  fools ! 

Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern, 
Pol.  You  go  to  seek  my  lord  Hamlet ;  there 
he  is. 

ton,  is,  "  being  a  god,  kissing  carrion."  The  text,  as  we  give 
it,  is  that  of  the  quartos  and  the  folios.  We  fear  that  this 
"  noble  emendation,"  as  Johnson  calls  it,  cannot  be  sustained 
by  what  follows.  The  carrion  is  good  at  kissing — ready  to  re- 
turn the  kiss  of  the  sun — "Common  kissing  Titan," — and  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  satire  Hamlet  associates  the  idea  with  the 
daughter  of  Polonius.  Mr.  Whiter,  however,  considers  that 
good,  the  original  reading,  is  correct;  but  that  the  poet  uses 
the  word  as  a  substantive — the  good  principle  in  the  fecundity 
of  the  earth.  In  that  ease  we  should  read,  "bi;ing  a  good, 
kissing  carrion.  (See  '  Specimen  of  a  Commentary  on  Shake- 
speare,' p.  157.) 

"  This  is  ordinarily  printed  "  yourself,  sir,  shall  be  as  old 
as  I  am," — a  made  up  reading. 

^  So  the  folio.  The  quarto  (B)  reads,  "  except  my  life,  ex- 
cept my  life,  except  my  life." 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Ros.  God  save  j'oii,  sir!  [To  Polonius. 

\_Ea:it  Polonius. 

GuU.  Mine  lionour'd  lord! — 

Ros.  My  most  dear  lord! 

Ham.  My  excellent  good  friends !  How  dost 
thou,  Guildenstern  ?  Ah,  Rosencrantz!  Good 
lads,  how  do  ye  both? 

Ros.  As  the  indifferent  children  of  the  earth. 

Guil.  Hapjiy,  in  that  we  are  not  overhappy; 
On  fortime's  cap  we  are  not  the  very  button. 

Ham.  Nor  the  soles  of  her  shoe? 

Ros.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  you  live  about  her  waist,  or  in  the 
middle  of  her  favour  ? 

Guil.  'Faith,  her  privates  we. 

Ham.  In  the  secret  parts  of  fortune?  O,  most 
true;  she  is  a  strumpet.     What's  the  news? 

Ros.  None,  my  lord;  but  that  the  world's 
grown  honest. 

Ham.  Then  is  dooms-day  near:  But  your 
news  is  not  true.  Let  me  question  more  in  par- 
ticular :  What  have  you,  my  good  friends,  de- 
served at  the  hands  of  fortime,  that  she  sends 
you  to  prison  hither? 

Guil.  Prison,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Denmark's  a  prison. 

Ros.  Then  is  the  world  one. 

Ham.  A  goodly  one;  in  which  there  ai'e  many 
confines,  wards,  and  dvmgeons;  Denmark  being 
one  of  the  worst. 

Ros.  We  tliink  not  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  then  'tis  none  to  you :  for  there 
ife  nothing  either  good  or  bad  but  thinking  makes 
it  so :  to  me  it  is  a  prison. 

Ros.  Why,  then  your  ambition  makes  it  one ; 
'tis  too  naiTow  for  your  mind. 

Ham.  O  God!  I  coidd  be  bounded  in  a  nut- 
shell, and  count  myself  a  king  of  infinite  space ; 
were  it  not  that  I  have  bad  dreams. 

Guil.  Which  dreams,  indeed,  are  ambition; 
for  the  very  substance  of  the  ambitious  is  merely 
the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

Ham.  A  dream  itself  is  but  a  shadow. 

Ros.  Truly,  and  I  hold  ambition  of  so  airy  and 
light  a  quality,  that  it  is  but  a  shadow's  shadow. 

Ham.  Then  are  our  beggars,  bodies;  and  om* 
monarchs  and  outstretch'd  heroes  the  beggars' 
shadows:  Shall  we  to  the  covu't?  for,  by  my  fay, 
I  cannot  reason. 

Ros.  Guil.  We'll  wait  vipon  you. 

Ham.  No  such  matter:  I  will  not  sort  you 
with  the  rest  of  my  servants;  for,  to  speak  to 
you  like  an  honest  man,  I  am  most  dreadfidly 
attended.  But,  in  the  beaten  way  of  friendship, 
what  make  you  at  Elsinore  ? 


Ros.  To  visit  you,  my  lord ;  no  other  occasion. 

Ham.  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in 
thanks ;  but  I  tlumk  you :  and  sure,  dear  friends, 
my  thanks  are  too  dear,  a  half-penny.  W^ere  you 
not  sent  for?  Is  it  your  own  inclining?  Is  it  a 
free  visitation?  Come;  deal  justly  with  me: 
come,  come;  nay,  speak. 

Guil.  What  should  we  say,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Why  anything.  But  to  the  pm-pose.'' 
You  were  sent  for ;  and  there  is  a  kind  of  con- 
fession in  your  looks,  which  your  modesties  have 
not  craft  enough  to  colour :  I  know,  the  good 
king  and  queen  have  sent  for  you. 

Ros,  To  what  end,  my  loi'd? 

Ham.  That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me 
conjure  you,  by  the  rights  of  our  fellowship,  by 
the  consonancy  of  our  youth,  by  the  obligation 
of  our  ever-preserved  love,  and  by  what  more 
dear  a  better  proposer  could  charge  you  withal, 
be  even  and  direct  with  me,  whether  you  were 
sent  for,  or  no  ? 

Ros.  What  say  you?         [7Y>  Guildenstern. 

Ham.  Nay,  then  I  have  an  eye  of  you;  [Aside.'] 
— if  you  love  me,  hold  not  off. 
^  Guil.  My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Ham.  I  will  tell  you  why;  so  shall  my  antici- 
pation prevent  your  discovery  of  your  secrecy  to 
the  king  and  queen.  Moidt  no  feather.  •*  I  have 
of  late,  (but,  wherefore,  I  know  not,)  lost  all  my 
mirth,  foregone  all  custom  of  exercises :  and,  in- 
deed, it  goes  so  heavily  with  my  disposition, 
that  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth,  seems  to  me  a 
steril  promontory;  this  most  excellent  canopy, 
the  air,  look  you,  —  this  brave  o'erhanging  *= 
—  this    majestical    roof    fretted    with    golden 

»  So  the  folio.  The  passage  is  usually  printed  from  quarto 
(B),  "  any  thing — but  to  the  purpose." 

■>  So  the  folio.  The  quarto  (B),  reads,  "  and  youT  secrecy 
to  the  king  and  queen  moult  no  feather." 

"  In  the  quarto  {B),  we  read,  "this  brave  o'erhanging  yir- 
mament."  Using  o'erlmriging as  a  substantive,  and  omitting_/iV- 
mament,  (the  reading  of  the  folio,)  the  sentence  is,  perhaps, 
less  eloquent  but  more  coherent.  The  air  is  the  canopy ;  tlie 
o'erhanging ;  the  majestical  roof.  Here,  it  appears  to  us,  there 
are  three  distinct  references  to  the  common  belief  of  the  three 
regioris  of  air.  Ben  .Tonson,  in  his  description  of  the  scenery 
of  the  '  Mfisque  of  Hymen,'  has  this  passage : — "  A  cortine  of 
painted  clouds  reached  to  the  utmost  roof  of  the  hall ,  and  sud- 
denly opening,  revealed  the  tliree  regions  of  aii' :  in  the  highest 
of  which  sat  Jimo,  in  a  glorious  throne  of  gold,  circled  with 
comets  and  fiery  meteors,  engendered  in  that  hot  and  dry  re- 
gion ;  her  feet  reaching  to  the  lowest,  where  was  made  a  rain- 
bow, and  within  it  musicians  seated,  figuring  aery  spirits,  their 
habits  various,  and  resembling  the  several  colours  caused  in 
that  part  of  the  air  by  reflection.  The  midst  was  all  of  darh  and 
condensed  clouds,  as  being  the  proper  place  where  rain,  hail, 
and  other  watery  meteors  are  made."  Tlie  "  canopy,"  we 
believe,  is  the  lowest  region  of  "  colours  caused  by  reflection  ;'* 
the  "  o'erhanging,"  the  midst  of  "  d;irk  and  condensed 
clouds;"  the  "  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire,"  the 
highest,  where  Juno  sat,  "  circled  with  comets  and  fiery  me- 
teors." The  at>,  in  its  three  regions,  appears  to  Hamlet  no 
other  thing  "  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  va- 
pours." If  this  iuterprefcition  be  correct,  the  word  " Jirma- 
ment,"  which  is  applied  to  the  heavens  generally,  was  rejected 
by  the  poet,  as  convejing  an  image  unsuited  to  that  idea  of  a 
part  which  is  conveyed  by  the  substantive  "  o'erhanging." 

121 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


fire,  why,  it  appears  no  other  thing  to  me, 
than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  va- 
pours. What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man !  How 
noble  in  reason !  how  infinite  in  faculty !  in  form 
and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable!  in  ac- 
tion, how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension,  how 
like  a  god!  the  beauty  of  the  world !  the  paragon 
of  animals !  And  yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quin- 
tessence of  dust?  man  delights  not  me,  no,  nor 
woman  neither;  though,  by  your  smiling,  you 
seem  to  say  so. 

Ros.  My  lord,  there  was  no  such  stuff  in  my 
thoughts. 

Ham.  Why  did  you  laugh  then,  when  I  said, 
"  Man  dehghts  not  me  ?" 

Ros.  To  think,  my  lord,  if  you  delight  not  in 
man,  what  lenten*  entertainment  the  players 
shall  receive  from  you :  we  coted""  them  on  the 
way ;  and  hither  are  they  coming,  to  offer  you 
service. 

Ham.  He  that  plays  the  kuig  shall  be  wel- 
come; his  majesty  shall  have  tribute  of  me:  the 
adventurous  knight  shall  use  his  foil  and  target: 
the  lover  shall  not  sigh  gratis;  the  humorous 
man  shall  end  his  part  in  peace :  the  clown  shall 
make  those  laugh  whose  Imigs  are  tickled  o'the 
sere ;  <=  and  the  lady  shall  say  her  mind  freely, 
or  the  blank  verse  shall  halt  for't. — What  players 
are  they  ? 

Ros.  Even  those  you  were  wont  to  take  de- 
light in,  the  tragedians  of  the  city. 

Ham.  How  chances  it  they  travel?  their  resi- 
dence, both  in  reputation  and  profit,  was  better 
both  ways. 

Ros.  I  think,  their  inhibition  comea  by  the 
means  of  the  late  innovation. 

Ham.  Do  they  hold  the  same  estimation  they 
did  when  I  was  in  the  city  ?    Are  they  so  followed  ? 

Ros.  No,  indeed,  they  are  not. 

Ham.  How  comes  it?  Do  they  gi'ow  rusty? 

Ros.  Nay,  their  endeavour  keejjs  in  the  wonted 
pace:  But  there  is,  sir,  an  aiery  of  children, 
little  eyases,  that  cry  out  on  the  top  of  question, 
and  are  most  tyrannically  clapped  for't :  these  are 
now  the  fashion ;  and  so  berattle  the  common 
stages,  (so  they  call  them,)  that  many,  wearing 
rapiers,  are  afraid  of  goose  quills,  and  dare  scarce 
come  thither. 

Ham.  What,  are  they  children?  who  main- 
tains them?  how  are  they  escoted?<*     Will  they 

■  Lenten — sparing — like  fare  in  Lent. 

•>  Cotcd — overtook — went  side  by  side — from  cute. 

"  The  quarto  of  1603  reads,  "  that  are  tickled  iu  the  lungs." 
The  sere  is  a  dry  affection  of  the  throat,  by  which  the  lungs  are 
tickled ;  but  the  clown  provokes  laughter  even  from  those  who 
habitually  cough. 

*  Escoied—-p:ud.  The  scot  or  shot — the  coin  cast  down— is 
122 


pursue  the  quality  no  longer  than  they  can  sing? 
will  they  not  say  afterwards,  if  they  should  grow 
tliemselves  to  common  players,  (as  it  is  like 
most,  if  their  means  are  no  better,)  their  writers 
do  them  WTong,  to  make  them  exclaim  against 
their  own  succession? 

Ros.  'Faith,  there  has  been  much  to  do  on 
both  sides;  and  the  nation  holds  it  no  sin,  to 
tarre  them  to  controversy:*  there  was,  for  a 
while,  no  money  bid  for  argument,  unless  the 
poet  and  the  player  went  to  cuffs  in  the  question. 

Ham.  Is't  possible? 

Guil.  O,  there  has  been  much  throwing  about 
of  brains. 

Ham.     Do  the  boys  carry  it  away? 

Ros.  Ay,  that  they  do,  my  lord;  Hercules 
and  his  load  too. 

Ham.  It  is  not  strange;''  for  mine  uncle  is 
king  of  Denmark;  and  those  that  would  make 
mowes"^  at  him  while  my  father  lived,  give 
twenty,  forty,  an  hundred  ducats  a-piece,  for  his 
picture  in  little.  There  is  something  in  this 
more  than  natm-al,  if  philosophy  could  find  it 
out.  {Flourish  of  trumpets  within. 

Guil.  There  are  the  players. 

Ham.  Gentlemen,  you  are  welcome  to  Elsi- 
nore.  Your  hands.  Come:  the  appurtenance 
of  welcome  is  fashion  and  ceremony:  let  me 
comply  with  you  in  the  garb ;  lest  my  extent  to 
the  players,  which,  I  tell  you,  must  show  fairly 
outward,  should  more  appear  like  entertainment 
than  yours.  You  are  welcome :  but  my  uncle- 
father,  and  aunt-mothei",  are  deceived. 

Guil.  In  what,  my  dear  lord? 

Ham.  I  am  but  mad  north-north-west:  when 
the  wind  is  southerly,  I  know  a  hawk  from  a 
handsaw.  ^ 

Enter  Polonius. 

Pol.  Well  be  with  you,  gentlemen! 

Ham.  Hark  you,  Guildenstern, — and  )^ou  too ; 
— at  each  ear  a  hearer ;  that  great  baby  you  see 
there  is  not  yet  out  of  his  swathing''  clouts. 

Ros.  Happily,  he's  the  second  time  come  to 

the  share  of  any  common  charge  paid  by  an  individual.  The 
French  escotter,  is  to  pay  the  scot.     Hence  "  scot  and  lot." 

»  In  modern  editions,  "  to  tarre  them  on."  The  folio  has 
not  on.    In  Kiug  Jolm  (Act  iv.  Sc.  ii.)  we  have 

"  Like  a  dog  that  is  compelled  to  fight, 
Sn.atch  at  his  master  that  doth  tture  him  on." 
To  tarre  is  to  exasperate,  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  tirian. 
•>  In  quartos,  very  strange. 

"  In  quartos,  mouths.  The  mowes  of  the  folio  is  more  Shak- 
sperian — as  in  the  Tempest. 

"  Sometimes  like  apes  that  moc  and  chatter  at  me." 
*  Handsaw — the  corruption  in  this  proverbial  expression  of 
heronshaw — hernshaw,  a  heron.     In  Spenser,  we  have 
"  As  when  a  cast  of  falcons  made  their  flight 
At  au  herneshaw." 
^  Swathing,  in  tolio;  in  (luaitos,  swaddling. 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


them;  for,  they  saj',  an  old  man  is  twice  a 
chUd. 

Ham.  I  will  prophesy.  He  comes  to  tell  me 
of  the  players;  mark  it. — You  say  right,  sir: 
©'Monday  morning;  'twas  so,  indeed. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  you. 

Ham.  My  lord,  I  have  news  to  tell  j'ou. 
When  Roscius  was  an  actor  in  Rome," — 

Pol.  The  actors  are  come  liither,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Buz,  buz! 

Pol.  Upon  mine  honoiu-, — 

Ham.  Then  came  each  actor  on  his  ass,— 

Pol.  The  best  actors  in  the  world,  either  for 
tragedy,  comedy,  history,  pastoral,  pastorical- 
comical,  historical-pastoral,  tragical-histoincal, 
tragical-comical-historical-pastoral,  scene  indi- 
vidable,  or  poem  unlimited:  Seneca  cannot  be 
too  heavy,  nor  Plautus  too  light.*  For  the  law 
of  writ,  and  the  liberty,  these  are  the  only  men. 

Ham.  O  Jephthah,  judge  of  Israel,' — what  a 
treasure  hadst  thou! 

Pol.  What  a  treasure  had  he,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Why — 

One  fair  daughter,  and  no  more. 
The  which  he  loved  passing  well. 

Pol.  Still  on  my  daughter.  \_Aside. 

Ham.  Am  I  not  i'the  right,  old  Jephthah  ? 
Pol.  If  you  call  me  Jephthah,  my  lord,  I  have 
a  daughter,  that  I  love  passing  well. 
Ham.  Nay,  that  follows  not. 
Pol.  What  follows  then,  my  lord? 
Ham.  Why, 

"  As  by  lot,  God  wot," 

and  then  you  know, 

"  It  came  to  pass.  As  most  like  it  was." 

The  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will  show  you 
more :  ^  for  look,  where  my  abridgments  come. 

Enter  Four  or  Five  Players. 

You  are  welcome,  masters ;  welcome,  all : — I  am 
glad  to  see  thee  well: — welcome,  good  friends. 
— O,  my  old  friend !  Thy  face  is  valiant''  since 
I  saw  thee  last;  Com'st  thou  to  beard  me  in 
Denmark? — What!  my  young  lady  and  mis- 
tress! By-'r-lady,  your  ladysliip  is  nearer 
heaven,  than  when  I  saw  you  last,  by  the  alti- 
tude of  a  chopine.^  Pray  God,  your  voice,  like 
a  piece  of  uncurrent  gold,  be  not  cracked  within 
the  ring.'* — Masters,  you  are  all  welcome.  We'll 
e'en  to't  like  French  falconers,  fly  at  any  thing 

"  The  folio  omits  was. 

^  Valiant,  in  i'olio  ;  which  is  intei-preted  manly.  The  quarto 
has  valanc'd,  which  is  explained  "  fringed  with  a  beard. 


we  see:  We'll  have  a  speech  straight:  Come, 
give  us  a  taste  of  your  quality ;  come,  a  passion- 
ate speech. 

1  Play.  What  speech,  my  lord? 

Ham.  I  heard  thee  speak  me  a  speech  once, 
— ^but  it  was  never  acted ;  or,  if  it  was,  not  above 
once ;  for  the  play,  I  remember,  pleased  not  the 
million;  'twas  caviarie  to  the  general:*  but  it 
was  (as  I  received  it,  and  others,  whose  judg- 
ments, in  such  matters,  cried  in  the  top  of  mine,) 
an  excellent  play ;  well  digested  in  the  scenes ; 
set  down  \n\h.  as  luuch  modesty  as  cunning.  I 
remember,  one  said,  there  were  no  sallets* 
in  the  lines,  to  make  the  matter  savoury; 
nor  no  matter  in  the  phrase  that  might  indite 
the  author  of  affectation ;  but  called  it,  an  honest 
method  [as  wholesome  as  sweet,  and  by  very 
much  more  handsome  than  fine].  One  chief 
speech  in  it  I  chiefly  loved:  'twas  iEneas'  tale 
to  Dido;  and  thereabout  of  it  especially,  where  he 
speaks  of  Piiam's  slaughter:  If  it  live  in  your 
memory,  begin  at  this  line ;  let  me  see,  let  me 
see; — 

The  rugged  PjTrhus,  like  the  HjTcanian  beast, 
'tis  not  so ;  it  begins  with  Pp-rhus. 

Tlie  rugged  PjTrhus, — he,  whose  sable  arms. 

Black  as  his  purpose,  did  the  night  resemble 

WHien  he  lay  couched  in  the  ominous  horse. 

Hath  now  tliis  dread  and  black  complexion  smear'd 

With  hcraldi-y  more  dismal  ;  head  to  foot 

Now  is  lie  total  gules;  ■>  horridly  ti'ick'd" 

Witli  blood  of  fathers,  mothers,  daughters,  sons ; 

Bak'd  and  impasted  with  tlie  parcliing  streets. 

That  lend  a  tjTannous  and  damned  light 

To  their  vile  murthers  :■!  Roasted  in  wrath  and  fire. 

And  thus  o'er-sized  with  coagulate  gore. 

With  eyes  like  carbuncles,  the  hellish  PjTrhus 

Old  graudsire  Priam  seeks, 

Pol.  'Fore  God,  my  lord,  well  spoken ;  with 
good  accent,  and  good  discretion. 

1  Play.  Anon  he  finds  him 
Striking  too  short  at  Greeks ;  his  antique  sword. 
Rebellious  to  his  arm,  lies  where  it  falls. 
Repugnant  to  command  :  Unequal  match'd, 
PjTrhus  at  Priam  drives  ;  in  rage  stiikes  wide ; 
But  with  the  whiff  and  \\  ind  of  his  fell  sword 
Tlie  unnerved  father  falls.     Then  senseless  Ilium, 
Seeming  to  feel  his  blow,  with  flaming  top 
Stoops  to  his  base ;  and  with  a  hideous  crash 
Takes  prisoner  Pyrrhus'  ear :  for,  lo !  his  sword, 
Wliicli  was  dccliuing  on  the  milky  head 
Of  reverend  Priam,  seem'd  i'the  air  to  stick  : 
So,  as  a  painted  tyrant,  Pyrrhus  stood ; 
And,  like  a  neutral  to  his  will  and  matter. 
Did  nothing. 

But,  as  we  often  si'e,  against  some  storm, 
A  silence  in  the  heavens,  the  rack  staud  still. 


"  Sallets,  ribaldry. 

•>  Gules,  red,  in  heraldic  phrase. 

■^  Tiick'd,  painted  ;  also  a  word  in  heraUlry. 

*  yUe  murthers,  in  the  folios ;  in  quartos,  lard's  murther. 

123 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


The  bold  winds  speechless,  and  the  orb  below 
As  hush  as  death  :  anon  the  dreadful  thunder 
Doth  rend  the  region  :  So,  after  Pyirhus'  pause, 
A  roused  vengeance  sets  him  new  a  work ; 
And  never  did  the  Cyclops'  hammers  fall 
On  Mars's  armours,  forg'd  for  proof  eterne. 
With  less  remorse  than  Pyirhus'  bleeding  sword 
Now  falls  on  Priam. — 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet.  Fortune  !     All  you  gods. 
In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power ; 
Break  all  the  spokes  and  fellies  from  her  wheel. 
And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of  heaven , 
As  low  as  to  the  fiends. 

Pol.  This  is  too  long. 

Ham.  It  shall  to  the  barber's,  with  your 
beard. — Prithee,  say  on  : — He's  for  a  jig,*  or  a 
tale  of  bawdry,  or  he  sleeps : — say  on  :  come  to 
Hecuba. 

1  Play.  But  who,  O  who,  had  seen  the  mobled  queen 

Ham.  The  mobled''  queen? 

Pol.  That's  good  :  mobled  queen  is  good. 

1  Play.  Run  barefoot  up  and  do^vn,  threat'ning  the  flame 
With  bisson  rheum  ;  a  clout  about  that  head, 
Wliere  late  the  diadem  stood ;   and,  for  a  robe. 
About  her  lank  and  all  o'er-teemed  loins, 
A  blanket,  in  the  alarum  of  fear  caught  up ; 
Who  this  had  seen,  with  tongue  in  venom  steep'd, 
'Gainst  fortune's  state  would  treason  have  pronouno'd : 
But  if  the  gods  themselves  did  see  her  then, 
Wlien  she  saw  Pyrrhus  make  malicious  sport 
In  mincing  with  his  sword  her  husband's  limbs. 
The  instant  burst  of  clamour  that  she  made, 
(Unless  things  mortal  move  them  not  at  all,) 
Would  have  made  milch  the  burning  eyes  of  heaven. 
And  passion  in  the  gods. 

Pol.  Look,  whether  he  has  not  turn'd  his 
colour,  and  has  tears  in's  eyes. — Pray  you,  no 
more. 

Ham.  'Tiswell;  I'll  have  thee  speak  out  the 
rest  soon.— Good  my  lord,  will  you  see  the 
players  well  bestowed  ?  Do  you  hear,  let  them 
be  well  used;  for  they  are  the  abstracts,"^  and 
brief  chronicles,  of  the  time  :  After  your  death 
you  were  better  have  a  bad  epitaph,  than  their 
ill  report  while  you  lived. 

Pol.  My  lord,  I  will  use  them  according  to 
their  desert. 

Ham.  Odd's  bodikin  man,  better : ''  Use  every 
man   after  his   desert,  and  who  should   'scape 

»  A  jig,  a  ludicrous  interlude. 

^  Mobled.  This  is  the  reading  of  quartos  (A)  and  (B).  In 
the  folio  we  have  inobled,  which  is,  we  have  little  doubt,  a  mis- 
print. In  the  folio  of  1632,  the  original  reading  was  restored. 
Mobled,  mobled,  is  hastily  muffled  up.     The  mobled  queen  has 

"  A  clout  about  that  head 
Where  late  the  diadem  stood." 

In  Sandys'  Tiavels  we  have  "their heads  and  faces  are  mabled 
in  fine  linen."  To  mob,  or  mab,  is  to  dress  carelessly;  a  mob 
is  a  covering  for  the  head, — a  close  covering,  according  to 
some, — a  mobile  covering,  more  probably. 

*=  Abstracts,  in  the  folio;  the  general  reading  is  abstract, 
adjectively. 

*  Better,  in  the  folio;  in  qiiaitos,  much  better. 
124 


whipping  !  Use  them  after  your  own  honour  and 
dignity :  The  less  they  deserve,  the  more  merit 
is  in  your  bounty.     Take  them  in. 

Pol.  Come,  sirs. 

^Exit  PoLONius  with  some  of  the  Players. 

Ham.  Follow  him,  friends  :  we'll  hear  a  play 
to-morrow. — Dost  thou  hear  me,  old  friend ;  can 
you  play  the  murther  of  Gonzago  ? 

1  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  We'll  have't  to-morrow  night.  You 
could,  for  a  need,  study  a  speech  of  some  dozen 
or  sixteen  lines,  which  I  would  set  down,  and 
insert  in't?  could  you  not? 

1  Play.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Very  well. — Follow  that  lord ;  and  look 
you  mock  him  not.  \_Exit  Player.]  My  good 
friends,  [7'o  Ros.  and  Guil.]  I'll  leave  you  till 
night :  you  are  welcome  to  Elsinore. 

Ros.  Good  my  lord ! 
\_Exeunt  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

Ham.  Ay,  so,  God  be  wi'  you :   Now  I  am 
alone. 
O,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  I ! 
Is  it  not  monstrous,  that  this  player  here, 
But  in  a  fiction,  in  a  dream  of  passion, 
Coidd  force  his  soid  so  to  his  whole  ^  conceit. 
That  from  her  working,  all  his  visage  warm'd ;  •* 
Tears  in  his  eyes,  distraction  in's  aspect, 
A  broken  voice,  and  his  whole  function  suiting 
With  forms  to  his  conceit  ?  And  all  for  nothing ! 
For  Hecuba ! 

What's  Hecuba  to  him,  or  he  to  Hecuba, 
That  he  should  weep  for  her  ?  What  would  he  do. 
Had  he  the  motive  and  the  cue  for  passion. 
That  I  have  1   He  would  drown  the  stage  with 

tears, 
And  cleave  the  general  ear  with  horrid  speech ; 
Make  mad  the  guilty,  and  appal  the  free,*= 
Confound  the  ignorant ;  and  amaze,  indeed. 
The  very  faculties  of  eyes  and  ears. 
Yet  I, 

A  dvUl  and  muddy-mettled  rascal,  peak. 
Like  John-a-dreams,''  unpregnant  of  my  cause, 
And  can  say  nothing ;  no,  not  for  a  king. 
Upon  whose  property,  and  most  dear  life, 
A  damn'd  defeat  was  made.     Am  I  a  coward  ? 
Who  calls  me  villain  ?  breaks  my  pate  across  ? 
Plucks  off  my  beard,  and  blows  it  in  my  face  ? 
Tweaks  me  by  the  nose  ?  gives  me  the  lie  i'the 

throat. 
As  deep  as  to  the  lungs  ?  Who  does  me  this  ? 
Ha! 

^  Whole,  iu  folio;  in  quartos,  own. 

■>  fVarm'd,  in  folio  ;  in  quartos,  warm'd. 

"  Free, — free  from  offence. 

^  John-a-dreams, — a  soubriquetfor  a  heavy,  lethargic  fellow. 


Act  II.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Why,  I  should  take  it :  for  it  cannot  be, 

But  I  am  pigeon-liver'd,  and  lack  gall 

To  make  oppression  bitter ;  or,  ere  this, 

I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 

With  this  slave's  ofFal :   Bloody,  bawdy  villain  ! 

Remorseless,    treacherous,    lecherous,    kindless 

villain ! 
O  vengeance. 
What   an   ass   am    I !    aj',    sure,    this   is   most 

brave ;  * 
That  I,  the  son  of  the  dear  murthered,  ^ 
Prompted  to  my  revenge  by  heaven  and  hell, 
Must,  like  a  whore,  unpack  my  heart  with  words, 
And  fall  a  cursing,  like  a  very  drab, 
A  scullion ! 

»  So  the  folio.  The  quiirtos,  omitting  the  sliort  lino,  "  O 
\engeance,"  read 

"  MHiy,  what  an  ass  am  I  !     This  is  most  brave." 

^  So  the  folio;  the  quartos,  "  a  dear  father  murdcr'd."  The 
rejection,  by  the  editors,  of  the  beautiful  reading  of  "  tlie  dear 
murthered,"  would  be  uuaccountjible,  if  we  did  not  see  how 
jiertuiaciously  they  have  all,  except  Mr.  Caldecott,  treated  the 
folio  of  1G23  as  of  no  authority. 


Fye  upon't!    fob!  About,  my  brains!    I    have 

heard. 
That  guilty  creatures,  sitting  at  a  play, 
Have  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul,  that  presently 
They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions  ; 
For  murther,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ.     I'll  have  these 

players 
Play  something  like  the  murder  of  my  father. 
Before  mine  uncle  :  I'll  observe  his  looks ; 
I'll  tent  him  to  the  quick  ;  if  he  but  blench, 
I  know  my  course.     The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
May  be  the  devil :  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape ;  yea,  and,  perhaps, 
Out  of  my  weakness,  and  my  melancholy, 
(As  he  is  very  potent  with  such  sj^irits,) 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me  :   I'll  have  grounds 
More  i-elative  than  this :  The  play's  the  thing, 
Wherein  I  '11  catch  the  conscience  of  the  king. 

llixit. 


[Elsinore.] 


TiCAGEDIES. — Vol..   I.      S 


125 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT   II. 


'Scene  II. — "  Seneca  cannot  be  too  heavy,^^  8fc. 

In  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act,  Hamlet  thus 
addresses  Polonius  : — "  My  lord,  you  played  once 
in  the  university,  you  sayV"  It  is  to  the  practice 
amongst  the  students  of  our  universities,  in  the  time 
of  Elizabeth,  of  acting  Latin  plays,  that  Hamlet  al- 
ludes ;  and  the  frequency  of  such  performances,  as 
Warton  remarks,  may  have  suggested  to  Shakspere 
the  names  of  Seneca  and  Plautus  in  the  passage  be- 
fore us.  In  that  very  curious  book,  Braun's  '  Civi- 
tates,'  1575,  there  is  a  Latin  memoir  prefixed  to  a  map 
of  Cambridge,  in  v^hich  these  theatrical  entertain- 
ments are  described ;  and  the  fables  of  Plautus,  Te- 
rence, and  Seneca,  are  expressly  mentioned  as  being 
performed  by  the  students  with  elegance,  magnifi- 
cence, dignity  of  action,  and  propriety  of  voice  and 
countenance.  Malone  says,  "  The  most  celebrated 
actors  at  Cambridge  were  the  students  of  St.  John's 
and  King's  colleges:  at  Oxford,  those  of  Christ- 
church.  In  the  hall  of  that  college  a  Latin  comedy, 
called  Marci/s  Getninus,  and  the  Latin  tragedy  of 
Progne,  were  performed  before  Queen  Elizabeth  in 
the  year  1566;  and,  in  1564,  the  Latin  tragedy  of 
Dido  was  played  before  her  majesty,  when  she  visited 
the  University  of  Cambridge.  The  exhibition  was  in 
the  body  or  nave  of  the  chapel  of  King's  College, 
which  was  lighted  by  the  royal  guards,  each  of  whom 
bore  a  staff-torch  in  his  hand."  The  account  of  this 
visit  of  Elizabeth  to  Cambridge  is  to  be  found  in 
Peck's  '  Desiderata  Curiosa,'  vol.  ii.  page  25 ;  and 
it  appears  from  the  subjoined  passage,  that  there  was 
great  competition  amongst  the  colleges  for  the  the- 
atrical recreation  of  her  majesty :  — 

"  Great  preparations  and  charges,  as  before  in  the 
other  plays,  were  employed  and  spent  about  the  tra- 
gedy of  Sophocles,  called  Ajax  Flagellifer,  in  Latin, 
to  be  this  night  played  before  her.  But  her  highness, 
as  it  were  tired  with  going  about  to  the  colleges, 
and  with  hearing  of  disputations,  and  over-watched 
with  former  plays,  (for  it  was  very  late  nightly  be- 
fore she  came  to  them,  as  also  departed  from  them,) 
and  furthermore,  minding  early  in  the  morning  to 
depart  from  Cambridge  and  ride  to  a  dinner  unto  a 
house  of  the  Bishop  of  Ely,  at  Stanton,  and  from 
thence  to  her  bed  at  Hinchinbrook,  (a  house  of  Sir 
Henry  Cromwell's,  in  Huntingdonshire,  about 
twelve  miles  from  Cambridge,)  could  not,  as  other- 
wise, no  doubt,  she  would,  (with  like  patience  and 
cheerfulness,  as  she  was  present  at  the  other,)  hear 
the  said  tragedy  ;  to  the  great  sorrow,  not  only  of  the 
players,^but  of  all  the  wliole  University." 
126 


^  Scene  II. — ^'  One  fair  daughter  and  no  more, ^^  8fc. 

There  is  an  old  ballad,  which  was  first  printed  in 
Percy's  Reliques,  under  the  title  '  Jephthah,  Judge 
of  Israel, 'and  is  there  given  as  it  "  was  retrieved  from 
utter  oblivion  by  a  lady  who  wrote  it  down  from  me- 
mory, as  she  had  formerly  heard  it  sung  by  her 
father."  A  copy  of  the  ballad  has  since  been  reco- 
vered; and  is  reprinted  in  Evans'  Collection,  1810. 
The  first  stanza  is  as  follows : — 

"  I  have  read  that  many  years  agoe. 
When  Jepha,  judge  of  Israel, 
Had  one  fair  daughter  and  no  more. 

Whom  he  loved  passing  well. 
As  by  lot,  God  wot. 

It  came  to  passe  most  like  it  was, 
Great  wans  there  should  be. 
And  who  should  be  the  chiefe,  but  he,  but  he." 

The  lines  quoted  by  Hamlet  almost  exactly  corre- 
spond with  this  copy.  Hamlet,  in  the  text  of  the 
quarto  of  1611,  calls  the  poem,  'The  Pioies  Chan- 
son;^ but  in  the  quarto  of  1604,  and  the  folio  of 
1623,  it  is  'the  Pons  Chanson.'  Pope  says,  this  re- 
fers to  the  old  ballads  sung  on  bridges.  We  believe 
Pons  is  a  typographical  error ;  for  in  the  quarto  of 
1603,  we  find  "  the  first  verse  of  the  ffodli/  ballet." 

^  Scene  II. — "5y  the  altitude  of  a  choppine.'^ 

The  best  description  of  a  choppine  is  found  in  Co- 
ryat's  'Crudities,'  1611;  and  we  subjoin  a  repre- 
sentation of  several  specimens  of  these  monstrous 
clogs,  which  Evelyn  calls  "  wooden  scaffolds :" — 


[Clioppines.'J 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


"  There  is  one  thing  used  of  the  ^'enetian  women, 
and  some  others  dwelling  in  the  cities  and  towns 
subject  to  the  signiory  of  Venice,  that  is  not  to  be 
observed  (I  think)  amongst  any  other  women  in 
Christendom,  which  is  so  common  in  Venice,  that 
no  woman  whatsoever  goeth  without  it,  either  in  her 
house  or  abroad, — a  thing  made  of  wood  and  covered 
tvith  /eat her  of  sundry  colours,  some  with  white, 
some  red,  some  yellow.  It  is  called  a  chapiney, 
which  they  icear  under  their  shoes.  Many  of  them 
are  curiously  painted;  some  also  of  them  I  have 
seen  fairly  gilt :  so  uncomely  a  thing  (in  my  opi- 
nion), that  it  is  pity  this  foolish  custom  is  not  clean 
banished  and  exterminated  out  of  the  city.  There 
are  many  of  these  chapineys  of  a  great  height,  even 
half  a  yard  high,  which  maketh  many  of  their  wo- 
men that  are  very  short  seem  much  taller  than  the 
tallest  women  we  have  in  England.  Also  I  have 
heard  it  observed  among  them,  that  by  how  much 
the  nobler  a  woman  is,  by  so  much  the  higher  are 
her  chapineys.  All  their  gentlewomen,  and  most  of 
their  wives  and  widows  that  are  of  any  wealtli,  are 
assisted  and  supported  either  by  men  or  women, 
when  they  walk  abroad,  to  the  end  they  may  not 
fall.  They  are  borne  up  most  commonly  by  the  left 
arm,  otherwise  they  might  quickly  take  a  fall." 

■*  Scene  II. — "  Your  voice,  like  apiece  of  uncurrent 
gold,  cracked  within  the  ring.'''' 

Hamlet's  address  to  "  my  young  lady  and  mis- 
tress" is  perfectly  intelligible,  and  has  no  latent 
meaning.  The  parts  of  women  were  performed  by 
boys.  The  boy  that  Hamlet  recollected  in  such 
parts  was  now  "nearer  to  heaven  by  the  altitude  of 


achoppine;" — he  was  growing  into  a  man,  Ham- 
let hopes,  therefore,  that  his  "  voice,  like  a  piece  of 
uncurrent  gold,  be  not  cracked  within  the  ring;" — 
that  his  voice  be  not  broken,  as  the  technical  phrase 
is,  and  he  be  therefore  unfittedfor  women's  parts; — 
be  no  longer  current  in  those  parts.  Our  readers 
who  have  seen  the  coins  of  the  16th  century,  or  have 
noticed  our  representations  of  them,  will  have  ob- 
served that  the  head  of  the  sovereign  is  invariably 
contained  within  a  circle,  between  which  and  the 
rim  the  legend  is  given.  The  test  of  currency  in 
a  coin  was,  that  it  should  not  be  cracked  within  the 
circle,  or  ring.  If  the  crack,  to  which  the  thin  coins 
of  that  age  were  particularlyliable,  extended  beyond 
the  ring,  the  money  was  no  longer  considered  good. 
We  learn,  from  two  tracts  quoted  by  Douce,  that  it 
was  customary  for  usurers  to  buy  up  the  "  uncurrent 
gold,"  at  a  price  lower  than  the  nominal  value  of 
the  coin,  and  then  require  the  unhappy  borrowers  to 
take  them  at  their  standard  rate. 

*  Scene  II. — "  'Twas  caviarie  to  the  general." 

This  word  is  generally  written  caviare ;  but  it  is 
caviarie  in  the  folio,  following  the  Italian  caviaro. 
Florio,  in  his  'New  World  of  Words, 'has,  "  Caviaro, 
a  kind  of  salt  black  meat  made  of  roes  of  fishes, 
much  used  in  Italy."  In  Sir  John  Harrington's 
33rd  epigram,  we  iind  the  word  forming  four  sylla- 
bles, and  accented,  as  written  by  Shakspere : — 

"And  caveare,  but  it  little  boots." 

This  preparation  of  the  roes  of  sturgeons  was  for- 
merly much  used  in  England  amongst  the  refined 
classes.    It  was  imported  from  Russia. 


12/ 


SCENE  I. — A  Room  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  King,  Queen,  Polonius,  Ophelia,  Ro- 

SENCRANTZ,   and  GuiLDENSTERN. 

Kinfj.  And  can  you,  by  no  drift  of  circum- 
stance *, 
Get  from  him,  why  he  puts  on  this  confusion  ; 
Grating  so  harshly  all  his  days  of  quiet 
With  turbulent  and  dangerous  lunacy  ? 

Ros.  He    does   confess  he  feels  himself  dis- 
tracted ; 
But  from  what  cause  he  will  by  no  means  speak. 

Guil.  Nor  do   we   find   him   forward   to   be 
sounded ; 
But,  with  a  crafty  madness,  keeps  aloof, 
When  we  would  bring  him  on  to  some  confession 
Of  his  true  state. 

Queen.  Did  he  receive  you  well  1 

Ros.  Most  like  a  gentleman. 

Gidl.   But  with  much  forcing  of  his  disposition. 

Ros.  Niggard  of  question ;  but,  of  our  demands, 
Most  free  in  his  reply. 

Queen.  Did  you  assay  him 

To  any  pastime  ? 

•  Circumstance,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  conference. 
128 


Ros.  Madam,  it  so  fell  out,  that  certain  players 
We  o'er-raught  on  the  way :  of  these  we  told 

him ; 
And  there  did  seem  in  him  a  kind  of  joy 
To  hear  of  it :  They  are  about  the  court ; 
And,  as  I  think,  they  have  already  order 
This  night  to  play  before  him. 

Pol.  'Tis  most  true  : 

And  he  beseech'd  me  to  entreat  your  majesties. 
To  hear  and  see  the  matter. 

King.  With  all  my  heart ;  and  it  doth  much 
content  me 
To  hear  him  so  inclin'd. 
Good  gentlemen,  give  him  a  further  edge. 
And  drive  his  purpose  on  to  these  delights. 

Ros.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

[^Exeunt  RosENCRANTZ  and  Guildenstern. 

King.  Sweet  Gertrude,  leave  us  too  : 

For  we  have  closely  sent  for  Hamlet  hither ; 
That  he,  as  'twere  by  accident,  may  here 
Affront*  Ophelia. 

Her  father,  and  myself  (lawful  espials,) 
Will  so  bestow  oin-selves,  that,  seeing,  unseen, 
We  may  of  their  encounter  frankly  judge  ; 

"  Affront,  envouuier,  confront. 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCENK    I. 


And  gather  by  him,  as  he  is  behav'd, 
If't  be  the  affliction  of  his  love  or  no, 
That  thus  he  suffers  for. 

Queen.  I  shall  obey  you  : 

And  for  your  part,  Ophelia,  I  do  wish. 
That  your  good  beauties  be  the  happy  cause 
Of  Hamlet's  wildness ;    so   shall  I  hope  your 

virtiies 
Will  bring  him  to  his  wonted  way  again, 
To  both  your  honours. 

Oph.  Madam,  I  wish  it  may. 

\_Exit  Queen. 
Pol.  Ophelia,  walk  you  here : — Gracious,  so 
please  you, 
We  will  bestow  ourselves  : — Read  on  this  book ; 

[To  Ophelia. 
That  show  of  such  an  exercise  may  colour 
Yom-  loneliness.     We  are  oft  to  blame  in  this, — 
'Tis  too  much  prov'd,  that,  with  devotion's  visage. 
And  pious  action,  Ave  do  sugar  o'er 
The  devil  himself. 

King.  O,  'tis  too  true  ! 

How  smart  a  lash  that  speech  doth  give  my  con- 
science !  ^ 
The  harlot's  cheek,  beautied  with  plast'ring  art. 
Is  not  more  ugly  to  the  thing  that  helps  it. 
Than  is  my  deed  to  my  most  painted  word : 
O  heavy  burden  !  {^Aside. 

Pol.  I  hear  him  coming ;  let's  withdraw,  my 
lord.        [^Exeunt  King  and  Polonius. 

Enter  Hamlet. 

Ham.  To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question : 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageovis  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, '' 
And,    by    opposing   end   them? — To    die, — to 
sleep, — *= 

»  Tlie  modern  editors  have  destroyed  the  original  metrical 
arrangement,  and  print  tliese  two  lines  thus,  against  all  au- 
tliority : — 

"The  devil  himself. 

King.  O,  'tis  too  tiue  !  how  smart 

A  lasli  th;it  sjieecli  dotli  give  my  conscience." 
''  Pope  wished  to  print,  "  a  sie(/e  of  troubles."     Surely  the 
metaphor  of  the  sea,  to  denote  an  o\crwhelming  flood  of  trou- 
bles, is  highly  beautiful .     It  is  thoroughly  Shaksperian  ;  for 
we  find,  in  Pericles,  "  a  se.a  of  .joys;" — in  Henry  VIII.,  "  a 
sea  of  glory;" — in  Tarquin  and  Lucrece,  "  a  sea  of  care." 
In  Milton,  we  have,    "  in  a  troubled  sea  of  passion  tost." 
(Par.  Lost,  x.  718.) 
'  This  passage  is  sometimes  printed  thus : — 
"  To  die ; — to  sleep ; — 
No  more?" 
It  is  so  given  in  Ayscough's  edition.     Surely  the  doubt  whe- 
ther death  and  sleep  are  identical  comes  too  early,  the  passage 
being  so  pointed  ;  for  the  reasoning  proceeds  to  assume  that 
deatli  and  sleep  are  the  same,  and,  believing  tliem  to  be  tlie 
same, 

"  'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd." 
Nuw  comes  the  doubt — "  perchance  to  dream."     The  "  no 
more"  is  niifliing   mure — the  " rien  de  plus"  of  the  French 
translators  of  Hamlet. 


No  more ;  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ach,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to, — 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     To  die, — to  sleep;  — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  ; — ay,  there's  the 

rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come. 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there's  the  respect. 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  : 
For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of 

time. 
The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud^  man's  con- 
tumely, 
The  pangs  of  dispriz'd''  love,  the  law's  delay. 
The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 
With  a  bare  bodkin  ?<=  who  woidd  these •^  fardels 

bear. 
To  grunt  ^  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life ; 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death. 
The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will ; 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 
Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprizes  of  great  pith  and  moment. 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  away,  ^ 
And  lose  the  name  of  action. — Soft  you,  now  ! 
The  fair  Ophelia : — Nymph,  in  thy  orisons 
Be  all  my  sins  remember'd. 

Oph.  Good  my  lord. 

How  does  your  honour  for  this  many  a  day  ? 
Ham.  I  humbly  thank  you  ;  well,  well,  well,  k 
Oph.  My  lord,  I  have  remembrances  of  yom's, 
That  I  have  longed  long  to  re-deliver  ; 
I  pray  you,  now  receive  them. 

Ham.  No,  no.     I  never  gave  you  aught. 
Oph.  My  honour 'd  lord,  I  know  right  well 
you  did ; 

»  Proud,  in  the  quartos.  In  the  folio  we  have  "  the  poor 
m.an's  contumely," — the  contumely  whieli  the  poor  man  bears. 
We  retiiin  tlie  reading  of  tlie  quartos,  for  the  transition  is 
abrupt  from  the  wrong  whieli  the  oppressor  inflicts  to  the  con- 
tumely wliicli  tlie  poor  man  sujf'ers. 

^  Dispriz'd,  in  the  folio  ;  in  quartos,  dcspis'd. 

"  Bodkin,  a  small  sword.  Caesar  is  spoken  of,  by  old 
writers,  as  slain  by  bodkins. 

<■  These,  in  folio,  but  not  in  quartos. 

=  Grunt.  So  the  originals.  The  players,  in  their  squeamish- 
uess,  always  give  us  gruan;  and,  if  they  had  not  tlie  terror 
of  tlie  blank  verse  before  them,  they  would  cert;iinly  inflict 
perspire  I'ipou  us.  Orunt  is  used  for  loud  lament  by  Turber- 
ville,  Stonyhurst,  and  other  writers  before  Shakspere.  Wc 
liave  the  word  direct  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  grunan. 

'  Awny,  in  folio  ;  in  quartos,  awry. 

B  This  repetition  "  well,  well,  we'll,"  has  been  rejected  Viy 
the  modern  editors.     It  is  not  in  the  quartos. 

129 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  I. 


And,  with  them,  words  of  so  sweet  breath  com- 

pos'd 
As  made  the  things  more  rich  :  their  perfume  lost, 
Take  these,  again ;  for  to  the  noble  mind, 
Rich  gifts  wax  poor,  when  givers  prove  unkind. 
There,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Ha,  ha!  are  you  honest? 

Oph.  My  lord? 

Ham.  Are  you  fair  ? 

Oph.  What  means  your  lordship  ? 

Ham.  That  if  you  be  honest,  and  fair,  your 
honesty*  should  admit  no  discourse  to  your 
beauty. 

Oph.  Could  beauty,  my  loi'd,  have  better  com- 
merce than  with  honesty  ?  ^ 

Ham.  Ay,  triUy ;  for  the  power  of  beauty  will 
sooner  transfoi'm  honesty  from  what  it  is  to  a 
bawd,  than  the  force  of  honesty  can  translate 
beauty  into  his  likeness :  this  was  some  time  a 
paradox,  but  now  the  time  gives  it  proof.  I  did 
love  you  once. 

Oph.  Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe 
so. 

Ham.  You  should  not  have  believed  me :  for 
virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock,  but  we 
shall  relish  of  it :  I  lov'd  you  not. 

Oph.  I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Ham.  Get  thee  to  a  nunnery ;  Why  would'st 
thou  be  a  breeder  of  sinners?  I  am  myself  in- 
different honest ;  but  yet  I  coidd  accuse  me  of 
such  things,  that  it  were  better  my  mother  had 
not  borne  me:  I  am  very  proud,  revengeful, 
ambitious ;  with  more  offences  at  my  beck,  than 
I  have  thoughts  to  put  them  in,  imagination  to 
give  them  shape,  or  tmie  to  act  them  in :  What 
should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between 
heaven  and  earth  !<^  We  are  aiTant  knaves,  all : 
believe  none  of  us :  Go  thy  ways  to  a  nunnery. 
Where's  your  father? 

Oph.  At  home,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  the  doors  be  shut  upon  him,  that 
he  may  play  the  fool  no  way '^  but  in's  own  house. 
Farewell. 

Oph.  O,  help  him,  you  sweet  heavens! 

Ham.  If  thou  dost  marry,  I'll  give  thee  this 
plague  for  thy  dowry :  Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice, 
as  pure  as  snow,  thou  shalt  not  escape  calumny. 
Get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  go;  farewell:  Or,  if  thou 

»  Your  honesty,  in  the  folio ;  in  tlie  quartos,  you. 

•>  fVith  honesty.  Tliis  is  the  reading  of  the  quartos.  The 
folio  has  "  your  honesty."  We  are  unwilling  not  to  receive 
into  the  text  what  is  clearly  an  alteration  by  design  ;  and  yet 
it  appears  to  lessen  the  idea  we  have  formed  of  Ophelia  to 
imagine  that  slie  would  put  her  beauty  so  directly  in  "  com- 
merce" with  Hamlet's  honesty. 

'  Heaven  and  earth,  in  the  folio ;  in  the  quartos,  enrtfi  and 
heaven . 

^  No  way,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  no  where. 

180 


wilt  needs  marry,  marry  a  fool ;  for  wise  men 
know  well  enough  what  monsters  you  make 
of  them.  To  a  nvmnery,  go;  and  quickly  too. 
Farewell. 

Oph.  O  heavenly  powers,  restore  him ! 

Ham.  I  have  heard  of  your  prattlings  too,  well 
enough.  God  hath  given  you  one  pace,  and  you 
make  yourselves  another:  you  jig,  you  amble, 
and  you  lisp,  and  nick-name  God's  creatures,* 
and  make  your  wantonness  your  ignorance :  Go 
to,  I'll  no  more  on't;  it  hath  made  me  mad.  I 
say,  we  will  have  no  more  marriages :  those  that 
are  married  already,  all  but  one,  shall  live ;  the 
rest  shall  keep  as  they  are.     To  a  nunnery,  go. 

[^Exit  Hamlet. 

Oph.  O,  what  a  noble  mind  is  here  o'erthrown ! 
The  courtier's,  soldier's,  scholar's,  eye,  tongue, 

sword : 
The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state. 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form. 
The  observ'd  of  all  observers !  quite,  quite,  down ! 
And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched. 
That  suck'd  the  honey  of  his  music  vows. 
Now  see  that  noble  and  most  sovereign  reason, 
Like  sweet  bells  jangled,  out  of  tune  and  harsh; 
That  immatch'd  form  and  feature  of  blown  youth. 
Blasted  with  ecstacy :  O,  woe  is  me ! 
To  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  see  what  I  see ! 

Re-enter  King  and  Polonius. 

King.  Love!  his  affections  do  not  that  way 
tend; 
Nor  what  he  spake,  though  it  lack 'd  form  a  little, 
Was  not  like  madness.     There's  something  in 

his  soul. 
O'er  which  his  melancholy  sits  on  brood; 
And,  I  do  doubt,  the  hatch,  and  the  disclose. 
Will  be  some  danger :  Which  to  prevent, 
I  have,  in  quick  determination. 
Thus  set  it  down :  He  shall  with  speed  to  Eng- 
land, 
For  the  demand  of  our  neglected  tribute  : 
Haply,  the  seas,  and  countries  different. 
With  variable  objects,  shall  expel 
This  something-settled  matter  in  his  heart; 
Whereon  his  brains  still  beating,  puts  him  thus 
From  fashion  of  himself.     What  think  you  on't? 
Pol.  It  shall  do  well;  but  yet  do  I  believe, 

»  Such  is  the  reading  of  the  folio.  In  the  quartos,  which 
have  supplied  the  received  text,  we  have  paintings  instead  of 
prattlings,  and/oce  instead  of  pace.  The  context  justifies  the 
change  of  the  folio.  "  You  jig  and  you  amble" — you  go 
trippingly  and  mincingly  in  your  gait — (as  the  daughters  of 
Sion  are  said,  in  Isaiah,  to  "  come  in  tripping  so  nicely  with 
their  feet") — refers  to  pace;  as,  "  you  lisp  and  you  nick-name 
God's  creatures,"  does  to  prattlings.  The  face-painting,  al- 
though a  vice  of  Shakspere's  day,  woidd,  according  to  tlie 
reading  of  the  quarto,  be  disconnected  from  the  second  member 
of  tlie  sentence. 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


The  origin  and  commencement  of  this  grief 
Sprung  from  neglected  love. — How  now,  Ophelia, 
You  need  not  tell  us  what  lord  Hamlet  said; 
We  heard  it  all. — My  lord,  do  as  you  please ; 
But,  if  you  hold  it  fit,  after  the  play, 
Let  his  queen  mother  all  alone  entreat  him 
To  show  his  griefs ;  let  her  be  round  with  him ; 
And  I'll  be  plac'd,  so  please  you,  in  the  ear 
Of  all  their  conference  :  If  she  find  him  not,* 
To  England  send  him :  or  confine  him,  where 
Your  wisdom  best  shall  think. 

King.  It  shall  be  so : 

Madness  in  great  ones  must  not  unwatch'd  go. 

\_Exeunf. 

SCENE  11.—^  Hall  in  the  same. 

Enter  H.\mlet,  and  certain  Players. 

Ham.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I 
pronounced  it  to  you,  trippingly  on  the  tongue : 
but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  your  players  do, 
I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  had  spoke  my  lines. 
Nor  do  not  saw  the  air  too  much — your  hand 
thus :  but  use  all  gently :  for  in  the  very  torrent, 
tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  the""  whirlwind  of 
passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temper- 
ance, that  may  give  it  smoothness.  O,  it  offends 
me  to  the  soul,  to  see"^  a  robustious  periwig-pated 
fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to  very  rags,  to 
split  the  ears  of  the  groundlings;  who,  for  the 
most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing  but  inexplica- 
ble dumb  shows  and  noise :  I  could  have  such  a 
fellow  whipped  for  o'er-doing  Termagant;  it 
out-herods  Herod :  pray  you,  avoid  it. 

1  Play.  I  warrant  yom*  honour. 

Ham.  Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  yom- 
own  discretion  be  your  tutor :  suit  the  action  to 
the  word,  the  word  to  the  action ;  with  this  spe- 
cial observance,  that  you  o'er-step  not  the  mo- 
desty of  nature;  for  anything  so  overdone  is 
from  the  pui^pose  of  playing,  whose  end,  both  at 
the  first,  and  now,  was,  and  is,  to  hold,  as  'twere, 
the  mirror  up  to  nature ;  to  show  virtue  her  own 
featiu-e,  scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  very  age 
and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure. 
Now  this,  overdone,  or  come  tardy  off,  though 
it  make  the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  but  make  the 
judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of  the  which  one, 
must,  in  your  allowance,  o'er-weigh  a  whole 
theatre  of  others.  O,  there  be  players,  that  I 
have  seen  play,  and  heard  others  praise,  and 
that  highly,  not  to  speak  it  profanely,  that,  nei- 

'  Find  him  not  out. 

^  The,  in  lolio;  in  quartos,  your. 

'  Hear,  in  folio  ;  in  quartos,  sec. 


ther  having  the  accent  of  christians,  nor  the  gait 
of  christian,  pagan,  nor  man,  have  so  strutted, 
and  bellowed,  that  I  have  thought  some  of  Na- 
tiure's  journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made 
them  well,  they  imitated  humanity  so  abominably. 

1  Play.  I  hope,  we  have  refonned  that  indif- 
ferently* with  us,  sir. 

Ham.  O,  reform  it  altogether.  And  let  those 
that  play  your  clowns,  speak  no  more  than  is  set 
down  for  them :  for  there  be  of  them,  that  will 
themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity  of  bar- 
ren spectators  to  laugh  too ;  though,  in  the  mean 
time,  some  necessary  question  of  the  play  be 
then  to  be  considered:  that's  villainous;  and 
shows  a  most  pitiful  ambition  in  the  fool  that 
uses  it.     Go,  make  you  ready.    l_Exeunt  Players. 

Enter  Polonius,  Rosencrantz,  a7id 

GuiLDENSTERN. 

How  now,  my  lord  ?  will  the  king  hear  this  piece 
of  work  ? 

Pol.  And  the  queen  too,  and  that  presently. 
Ham.  Bid  the  players  make  haste. 

l^Exit  Polonius. 
Will  you  too  help  to  hasten  them  ? 
Both.  We  will,  my  lord. 

l^Exeunt  Rosencrantz  a7id  Guildenstern. 
Ham.  What,  ho  ;  Horatio  ? 

Enter  Horatio. 

Hor.  Here,  sweet  lord,  at  your  service. 

Ham.  Horatio,  thou  art  e'en  as  just  a  man 
As  e'er  my  conversation  cop'd  withal. 

Hor.  O,  my  dear  lord, — 

Ham.  Nay,  do  not  think  I  flatter  : 

For  what  advancement  may  I  hope  from  thee, 
That  no  revenue  hast  but  thy  good  spii'its. 
To  feed  and  clothe  thee  ?     Why  should  the  poor 

be  flatter'd? 
No,  let  the  candied  tongue  lick  absurd  pomp ; 
And  crook  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee, 
Where  thrift  may  follow  fawning.     Dost  thou 

hear  ? 
Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  my  choice, 
And  could  of  men  distinguish,  her  election 
Hath  seal'd  thee  for  herself:''  for  thou  hast  been 
As  one,  in  suffering  all,  that  suff"ers  nothing ; 
A  man,  that  fortune's  buffets  and  rewards 
Has  ta'en  with   equal  thanks:  and  bless'd  are 
those, 

'  Indifferently — tolerably  well — 

•"  The  ordiuaiy  reading,  wliieh  is  that  of  the  quartos,  is, 
"  Since  my  dear  soul  was  mistress  of  her  choice. 
And  co\ild  of  men  distinguish  her  election, 
.She  hath  seal'd  thee  for  herself." 
Surely  the  reading  of  the  folio,  that  of  our  text,  is  far  more 
elegant. 

131 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Wliose    blood   and  judgment   are    so   well    co- 
mingled, 
That  they  are  not  a  pipe  for  fortune's  finger 
To  sound  wliat  stop  she  please :  Give  me  that 

man 
That  is  not  passion's  slave,  and  I  will  wear  him 
In  my  heart's  core,  ay,  in  my  heart  of  heart, 
As  I  do  thee. — Something  too  much  of  this. — 
There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king ; 
One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance 
Which  I  have  told  thee  of  my  father's  death. 
I  prithee,  when  thou  seest  that  act  a-foot, 
Even  with  the  very  comment  of  my"  soul 
Observe  mine  uncle  :  if  his  occulted  guilt 
Do  not  itself  unkennel  in  one  speech, 
It  is  a  damned  ghost  that  we  have  seen  ; 
And  my  imaginations  are  as  fold 
As  Vidcan's  stithe."*     Give  him  heedful  note  : 
For  I  mine  eyes  will  rivet  to  his  face ; 
And,  after,  we  will  both  our  judgments  join 
To  censvu'e  of  his  seeming. 

Hor.  Well,  my  lord  : 

If  he  steal  aught,  the  whilst  this  play  is  play- 
ing, 
And  scape  detecting,  I  will  pay  the  theft. 

Ham.  They  are  coming  to  the  play ;  I  must 
be  idle  : 
Get  you  a  place. 

Enter  King,  Queen,  Polonius,  Ophelia,  Ro- 
sENCRANTZ,  GuiLDENSTERN,  and  otlicr  Lords 
attendant,  with  his  Guard,  carrying  torches. 
Danish  March.     Sound  a  flourish. 

King.  How  fares  our  cousin  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  Excellent,  i' faith;  of  the  camelion's 
dish :  I  eat  the  air,  promise-crammed :  You 
cannot  feed  capons  so. 

King.  I  have  nothing  with  this  answer, 
Hamlet ;  these  words  are  not  mine. 

Ham.  No,  nor  mine.  Now,  my  lord, — you 
played  once  in  the  university,  you  say? 

[To  Polonius. 

Pol.  That  I  did,  my  lord  ;  and  was  accounted 
a  good  actor. 

Ham.  And  what  did  you  enact  ? 

Pol.  I  did  enact  Julius  Cffisar :  I  was  killed 
i'the  Capitol :  Brutus  killed  me. 

"  Here,  again,  is  a  very  important  change  found  in  tlie  text 
of  the  t'olio,  which  has  been  rejected  by  tlie  modern  editors. 
The  ordinary  reading  (that  of  the  quartos)  is 

"  Even  with  the  very  comment  oithy  soul." 
But  Hamlet,  having  told  Horatio  the  "  circumstances"  of  his 
father's  death,  and  imparled  his  suspicions  of  liis  uncle,  en- 
treats his  friend  to  observe  his  uncle  "  with  the  very  com- 
ment of  my  soul" — Hamlet's  soul.  To  ask  Horatio  to  ob- 
serve him  with  the  comment  of  his  own  soul  (Horatio's),  is  a 
mere  feeble  expletive.  [ 

^  SHtlie—n  dissyllable— .<;f77/i;/. 

132 


Ham.  It  was  a  brute  part  of  him,  to  kill  so 
capital  a  calf  there. — Be  the  players  ready  ? 

Bos.  Ay,  my  lord;  they  stay  upon  your 
patience. 

Queen.  Come  hither,  my  good  Hamlet,  sit 
by  me. 

Ham.  No,  good  mother,  here's  metal  more 
attractive. 

Pol.  O  ho  !  do  you  mark  that?  [To  the  King. 

Hatn.  Lady,  shall  I  lie  in  your  lap  ? 

[^Lying  down  at  Ophelia's y^f/. 

Opli.  No,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  mean,  my  head  upon  your  lap  ? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Do  you  think  I  meant  country  matters? 

Oph.  I  think  nothing,  my  lord. 

Ham.  That's  a  fair  thouglit  to  lie  between 
maids'  legs. 

Oph.  What  is,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Nothing. 

Oph.  You  are  merry,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Who,  I  ? 

Oph.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  O  God !  your  only  jig-maker.  What 
should  a  man  do,  but  be  merry?  for,  look  you, 
how  cheerfidly  my  mother  looks,  and  my  father 
died  within  these  two  hours. 

Oph.  Nay,  'tis  twice  two  months,  my  lord. 

Ham.  So  long?  Nay,  then  let  the  devil  wear 
black,  for  I'll  have  a  suit  of  sables.  ^  O  heavens  ! 
die  two  months  ago,  and  not  forgotten  yet  ? 
Then  there's  hope  a  great  man's  memory  may 
outlive  his  life  half  a  year :  But,  by'r-lady,  he 
must  build  churches  then  :  or  else  shall  he  suffer 
notthinkingon,''with  the  hobby-horse ;  whose  epi- 
taph is,  For,  0,for,  0,  the  hohhy-horse  is  forgot.^ 

Hautboys  play.     The  dumb  show  enters.'^ 

Enter  a  King  and  a  Queen,  very  lovmgly;  the  Queen  em- 
bracing him.  She  kneels,  and  makes  show  of  protestation  untn 
him.  He  takes  her  up,  and  declines  Ms  head  upon  her  neck  : 
lays  Mm  down  nponahankofjlowers;  she,  seeing  him  asleep, 
leaves  him.  Anon  comes  in  a  fellow,  takes  off'  his  crown,  kisses 
it,  and  pours  poison  m  We  King's  ears,  and  exit.  The  Qaeun 
returns ;  Jinds  the  King  dead,  and  makes  passionate  action.  The 
poisoner,  with  some  two  or  three  mutes,  comes  in  again,  seeming 
to  lament  with  her.  The  dead  body  is  carried  away.  Tliepoisoner 
woos  the  Queen  with  gifts;  she  seems  loath  and  unwilling 
awhile,  but,  in  the  end,  accepts  his  love.  [Exeunt. 

Oph.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 
Ham.  Marry,   this  is  niiching  mallecho;'^'  it 
means  mischief. 


»  He  shall  suffer  being  forgotten. 

'■  See  lUustratian  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  Act  m.  Sc.  i. 

•=  Miching  mallecho.  To  mich  is  to  filch; — mallecho,  is 
misdeed,  from  tlie  Spanish.  The  skulking  crime  pointed  out  in 
llie  dumb  show  is,  in  one  sense  of  Hamlet's  wild  phrase, 
miching  miiUccho;  liis  own  secret  purpose,  liom  which  mis- 
cliief  w  ill  ensue,  is  miching  mallecho,  in  another  sense ; — in 
either  case,  "  it  means  mischief." 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Oj)h.  Belike,  this  show  imports  the  argument 
of  the  play. 

Enter  Prologue. 

Ham.  We  shall  know  by  tliis  fellow :  the 
players  cannot  keep  counsel ;  they'll  tell  all. 

Oph.  Will  he  tell  us  what  this  show  meant? 

Ham.  Ay,  or  any  show  that  you'll  show  him  : 
Be  not  you  ashamed  to  show,  he'll  not  shame  to 
tell  you  what  it  means. 

Oph.  You  are  naught,  you  arc  naught;  I'll 
mark  the  play. 

Pro.  For  iis,  and  for  oiir  tragedy 

Here  stoopiug  to  your  clemency. 
We  beg  yoiur  hearing  patiently. 

Ham.  Is  this  a  prologue,  or  the  poesy  *  of  a 
ring? 

Oph.  'Tis  brief,  my  lord. 
Ham.  As  woman's  love. 

Enter  King  and  his  Queen. 

P.  King.  Full  thirty  times  hath  Phoebus'  cart  gone  round 
Neptune's  salt  wash,  and  Tellus'  oibed  ground; 
And  tldrty  dozen  moons  with  borrow'd  sheen. 
About  the  world  have  times  twelve  thirties  been ; 
Since  love  our  hearts,  and  Hymen  did  our  hands. 
Unite  commutual  in  most  sacred  bands. 

P.  Queen.  So  many  joiu-nies  may  the  sun  and  moon 
Make  us  again  count  o'er,  ere  love  be  done  I 
But,  woe  is  me,  you  are  so  sick  of  late. 
So  far  from  cheer,  and  from  your  former  state, 
Tliat  I  distrust  you.     Yet,  though  I  distrust. 
Discomfort  you,  my  lord,  it  nottiing  must :  ^ 
For  women's  fear  and  love  holds  quantity  ; 
In  neither  aught,  or  in  extremity. 
Now,  what  my  love  is,  proof  hath  made  you  know  ; 
And  as  my  love  is  siz'd,  my  fear  is  so. 
[^Miere  love  is  great,  the  littlest  doubts  are  fear ; 
\Miere  little  fears  grow  great,  great  love  grows  there.]  ■= 

P.  King.  'Faith,  I  must  leave  thee,  love,  and  shortly  too ; 
My  operant  powers  my  *  functions  leave  to  do: 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  this  fair  world  behind, 
Honour'd,  belov'd;  and  haply,  one  as  kind 
For  husband  shall  thou 

P.  Queen.  O,  confound  the  rest  I 

Such  love  must  needs  be  treason  in  my  breast : 
In  second  husband  let  me  be  accurst ! 
None  wed  the  second  but  who  kill'd  the  first. 

»  Poesy.  In  the  quartos  this  is  spelt  posj'e  and  poesie.  In 
the  folio,  both  here  and  elsewhere,  it  is  spelt  puesie.  Posy  is 
certainly  the  same  as  poesy;  but  was  formerly,  as  now,  un- 
undeistood  to  mean  a  short  sentence  or  motto.  Thus,  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice, 

"  A  paltry  ring 
That  she  did  give  me ;  whose  poes;/  was 
For  all  the  world  like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife — Love  me  and  leave  me  not." 
In  Hall's  Clironicle  we  have,  "  And  the  tent  was  replenislicd, 
and  decked  with  tlris  posie — After   busy  labor  comcth  vic- 
torious rest." 

•>  In  the  quarto  we  find  a  line  following  tliis,  which  is 
omitted  in  the  folio ;  it  has  no  corresponding  line  in  rhyme  : — 

"  For  women  fear  too  much,  even  as  they  love." 
There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  line  ought  to  be  struck  out,  it 
being  superseded  by 

"  For  women's  fear  and  love  holds  quantity." 
<■  Tliese  tivo  lines  are  not  in  the  folio. 
*  My,  in  folio;  their,  in  quartos. 
Tragedies. — Vol.  I.  T 


Ham.  Wormwood,  wormwood. 

P.  Queen.  The  instances "  that  second  marriage  move. 
Are  base  respects  of  thrift,  but  none  of  love; 
A  second  time  I  kill  my  liusband  dead. 
When  second  husband  kisses  me  in  bed. 

P.  King.  I  do  believe,  you  think  what  now  you  speak ; 
But,  what  we  do  determine  oft  we  break. 
Purpose  is  but  the  slave  to  memory ; 
Of  violent  birth,  but  poor  validity : 
Wliich  now,  like  fruit  unripe,  sticks  on  the  tree; 
But  fall,  unshaken,  when  they  mellow  be. 
Most  necessary  'tis,  that  wc  forget 
To  pay  ourselves  what  to  oiu'selves  is  debt : 
Wliat  to  ourselves  in  passion  we  propose. 
The  passion  ending,  doth  tlie  purpose  lose. 
The  violence  of  either  grief  or  joy 
Their  own  enactures  witli  themselves  destioj' : 
Where  joy  most  revels,  grief  doth  most  lament, 
Grief  joys,  joy  grieves,  on  slender  accident. 
Tliis  world  is  not  for  aye ;  nor  'tis  not  strange. 
That  even  our  loves  should  with  our  fortunes  change ; 
For  'tis  a  question  left  us  yet  to  prove, 
Whether  love  lead  fortune,  or  else  fortune  love. 
The  great  man  down,  you  mark,  his  favourite  flies  ; 
The  poor  advanc'd  makes  friends  of  enemies. 
And  liitherto  doth  love  on  fortune  tend : 
For  who  not  needs  shall  never  lack  a  friend ; 
And  who  in  want  a  hollow  friend  doth  try, 
Directly  seasons  him  his  enemy. 
But,  orderly  to  end  where  I  begun, — 
Our  wills  and  fates  do  so  contrary  run. 
That  our  devices  still  are  overthrown  ; 
Our  thoughts  are  ours,  their  ends  none  of  our  own ; 
So  think  thou  wilt  no  second  husband  wed ; 
But  die  thy  thoughts,  when  thy  first  lord  is  dead. 

P.  Queen.  Nor  earth  to  give  me  food,  nor  heaven  light ! 
Sport  and  repose  lock  from  me,  day,  and  night  I 
[yVo  desperation  titfu  my  trust  and  hope ! 
An  anchor's''  cheer  in  prison  be  my  scope  I] 
Each  opposite,  that  blanks  the  face  of  joy. 
Meet  what  I  would  have  well,  and  it  destroy ! 
Both  here,  and  hence,  pursue  me  lasting  strife. 
If,  once  a  widow,  ever  I  be  wife  1 

Ham.  If  she  should  break  it  now, 

[To  Ophelia. 

P.  King.   'Tis  deeply  sworn.     Sweet,  leave  me  here  a 
while ; 
My  spirits  grow  dull,  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  ■v,-i\X\  sleep.  [Sleeps. 

P.  Queen.  Sleep  rock  thy  brain 

And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain  1  [£,^t^ 

Ham.  Madam,  how  like  you  this  play  ? 

Queen.  The  lady  protests  too  much,  methinks^ 

Ham.  O,  but  she'll  keep  her  word. 

King.  Have  you  heard  the  argument?  Is 
there  no  offence  in't? 

Ham.  No,  no,  they  do  but  jest,  poison  in 
jest;  no  oifence  i'the  world. 

King.  What  do  you  call  the  play  ? 

Ham.  The  mouse-trap.  Marry,  how?  Tro- 
pically."*    This  play  is  the  image  of  a  murder 

*  Instances — solicitations,  inducements. 
*■  This  couplet  is  found  only  in  the  quartos. 
"  Anc?wr's  cheer — anchoret's  fare.      This   abbrenation  of 
anchoret  is  very  ancient. 
■1  Tropically — figiuratively. 

133 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


done  in  Vienna ;  Gonzago  is  the  duke's  name; 
his  wife,  Baptista :  you  shall  see  anon ;  'tis  a 
knavish  jiiece  of  work:  But  what  of  that?  your 
majesty,  and  we  that  have  free  soids,  it  touches 
us  not :  Let  the  galled  jade  wince,  our  withers 
are  unwrung. 

Enter  Lucianus. 
Tliis  is  one  Lucianus,  nephew  to  the  king. 

Oph.  You  are  a  good  chorus,  '^  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  coidd  interpret  between  you  and  your 
love,  if  I  could  see  the  puppets  dallying.  ^ 

Oph.  You  are  keen,  my  lord,  you  are  keen. 

Ham.  It  would  cost  you  a  groaning,  to  take 
off  my  edge. 

Oph.  Still  better,  and  worse. 

Ham.  So  you  must  take  "^  husbands. — Begin, 
murderer ;  leave  thy  damnable  faces,  and  begin. 

Come ; 

The  croaking  raven 

Doth  bellow  for  revenge. 

Lnc.  Tlioughts  black,   hands  apt,  drugs  fit,  and  time 
agreeing ; 
Confederate  season,  else  no  creature  seeing ; 
Thou  mixture  rank,  of  midnight  weeds  collected. 
With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice  infected, 
Th}'  natural  magic  and  dire  property. 
On  wholesome  life  usurp  immediately. 

[Pours  the  poison  in  his  ears. 

Ham.  He  poisons  him  i'the  garden  for  his 
estate.  His  name's  Gonzago ;  the  story  is  ex- 
tant, and  writ  in  choice  Italian  :  You  shall  see 
anon,  how  the  murtherer  get's  the  love  of  Gon- 
zago's  wife. 

Oph.  The  king  rises. 

Ham.  What !  frighted  with  false  fire  ! 

Queen.  How  fares  my  lord? 

Pol.  Give  o'er  the  Jilay. 

King.  Give  me  some  light : — away  ! 

All.  Lights,  lights,  lights  ! 

\_Exeunt  all  hut  Hamlet  and  Horatio. 

Ham.  Why,  let  the  strucken  deer  go  weep. 
The  hart  ungalled  play  :  <■ 

For  some  must  watch,  while  some  must  sleep ; 
So  runs  the  world  away. — 
Would  not  this,  sir,  and  a  foi-est  of  feathers,  (if 
the  rest  of  my  fortunes  turn  Turk**  with  me,) 

»  So  the  folio ;  the  quartos,  "  good  as  a  chorus." 

•"  In  puppet  shows,  which  were  called  motions,  an  interpre- 
ter explained  tli(!  action  to  the  audience.  See  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona,  Act  ii.  .Sc.  i. 

"  Must  take.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  quarto  of  1603. 
.Tohnson,  who  had  not  seen  that  edition,  suggested  must  take  as 
a  correction  of  the  common  text,  mistake.  Mistake  may, 
however,  be  used  in  the  sense  of  to  take  wrongly. 

*  See  the  exquisite  passage  descriptive  of  "  the  poor  se- 
quester'd  stag,"  and  "  his  velvet  friends,"  in  As  You  Like  It, 
Act  II.  Sc.  I. 

'  Turn  Turk — if  the  rest  of  my  fortunes  deal  with  me  cruelly. 
"  To  turn  Turk,  and  throw  stones  at  the  poor,"  is  a  proverbial 

134 


with  two  Provincial  roses  on  my  razed  =*  shoes, . 
get  me  a  fellowship  in  a  cry  of  players,  sir  ? 
Hor.  Haifa  share.  ^ 
Ham.  A  whole  one,  ay. 

For  thou  dost  know,  O  Damon  dear. 

This  realm  dismantled  was 
Of  Jove  himself;  and  now  reigns  here 
A  very,  very — Paiocke.** 
Hor.  You  might  have  rhymed. 
Ham.  O  good  Horatio,  I'll  take  the  ghost's 
word  for  a  thousand  pound.     Didst  perceive  ? 
Hor.  Very  well,  my  lord. 
Ham.  Upon  the  talk  of  the  poisoning, — 
'Hot.  I  did  very  well  note  him. 
Ham.  Ah,  ha ! — Come,  some  music ;  come, 
the  recorders. — 

For  if  the  king  like  not  the  comedy, 
Why  then,  belike,  he  likes  it  not,  perdy. 

Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

Come,  some  music. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  vouchsafe  me  a  word 
with  you. 

Ham.  Sir,  a  whole  history. 

Guil.  The  king,  sir, — 

Ham.  Ay,  sir,  what  of  him  ? 

Guil.  Is,  in  his  retirement,  marvellous  dis- 
tempered. 

Ham.  With  drink,  sir? 

Guil.  No,  my  lord,  rather  with  choler. 

Ham.  Your  wisdom  should  show  itself  more 
richei',  to  signify  this  to  his  doctor ;  for,  for  me 
to  put  him  to  his  purgation,  would,  perhaps, 
plunge  him  into  far  more  choler. 

Guil.  Good  my  lord,  put  your  discourse  into 
some  frame,  and  start  not  so  wildly  from  my 
affair. 

Ham.  I  am  tame,  sir,  pronounce. 

Guil.  The  queen,  your  mother,  in  most  great 
affliction  of  spirit,  hath  sent  me  to  you. 

Ham.  You  are  welcome. 

Guil.  Nay,  good  my  lord,  this  courtesy  is  not 
of  the  right  breed.     If  it  shall  please  you   to 

expression  for  the  conduct  of  one  who  is  tyrannical  and  hard- 
hearted. 

"  Razed,  slashed.  The  cut  shoes  were  tied  with  a  riband 
gathered  in  the  form  of  a  rose.  The  feathers  and  the  line  shoes 
were  the  chief  decorations  of  the  players  of  ShaksiJcre's  day. 

•"  Paiocke.  This  is  generally  read  pcaruck.  All  the  old 
copies  \ia.\e paiocke,  ovpaiock.  Caldecott  thinks  that  paiocke 
and  peacock  are  the  same  words ;  but  in  a  very  ingenious 
pamphlet  entitled  '  Explanations  and  Emendations  of  some 
Pasages  in  tlie  Text  of  Shakspeare,'  &c.  (Edinbiugh,  1814), 
it  is  said  that  paiocke  means  the  Italian  baiocco,  "  a  piece  of 
money  of  about  three  farthings  value."  The  writer  then  refers 
to  the  passage  in  King  John — 

"  In  mine  ear  Idiust  not  stick  a  rose, 
Lest  men  should  say,  look  wliere  three  farthings  goes." 
In  Florio's  '  New  World  of  Words,'  1611,  we  find  "Baiocco, 
a  snap,  a  click,  or  flurt.     Also  a  mite,  or  such  like  coin." 
This  conjectuie  has  great  plausibility. 


Act  hi.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


make  me  a  wholesome  answer,  I  will  do  your 
mother's  commandment :  if  not,  your  pardon, 
and  my  return,  shall  be  the  end  of  my  business. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  cannot. 

Gull.  What,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Make  you  a  wholesome  answer;  my 
wit's  diseased :  But,  sir,  svich  answers  as  I  can 
make  j^ou  shall  command ;  or,  rather,  you  say, 
my  mother:  therefore,  no  more,  but  to  the 
matter ;  My  mother,  you  say, — 

Hos.  Then  thus  she  says :  Your  behaviour 
hath  struck  her  into  amazement  and  admiration. 

Ham.  O  wonderfid  son,  that  can  so  astonish  a 
mother ! — But  is  there  no  sequel  at  the  heels  of 
this  mother's  admiration  ? 

Ros.  She  desires  to  speak  with  you  in  her 
closet,  ere  you  go  to  bed. 

Ham.  We  shall  obey,  were  she  ten  times  our 
mother.     Have  j'ou  any  finlher  trade  with  us  ? 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  once  did  love  me. 

Ham.  So  I  do  still,  by  these  pickers  and 
stealers.  * 

Ros.  Good  my  lord,  what  is  your  cause  of 
distemper  1  you  do  freely  bar  the  door  of  your 
own  liberty,  if  you  deny  your  griefs  to  your 
friend.  ^ 

Ham.  Sir,  I  lack  advancement. 

Ros.  How  can  that  be,  when  you  have  the 
voice  of  the  king  himself  for  your  succession  in 
Denmark  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  but  WJiile  the  grass  grows, — the 
proverb  is  something  musty. 

Enter  one  loith  a  recorder.'^ 

O,  the  recorder  :  let  me  see. — To  withdraw  with 
you:"* — Why  do  you  go  about  to  recover  the 
wind  of  me,  as  if  you  would  drive  me  into  a  toil  ? 
GitU.  O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my 
love  is  too  unmannerly. 


"  "  Toticex^  my  hnndsh-ompickuig  and  stealing,"  is  an  ex- 
pression of  the  Cliiircli  Catechism. 

''  The  oidiuary  reading,  wliich  is  made  up,  is — "  you  do, 
surely,  but  bar  the  door  upon,"  &c.  Our  text  is  that  of  the 
folio. 

"  In  the  quarto  we  find,  "  enter theplaT/ers.v/ithrecorders." 
Tlie  recorder  was  (not  "  a  kind  of  large  flute,"  as  Mr.  Stee- 
veus  says,  but)  a  flageolet,  or  small  English  flute,  the  mouth- 
piece of  which,  at  the  upper  extremity  of  the  instrument,  re- 
sembled the  beak  of  a  bird ;  hence  the  larger  flutes  so  formed 
were  called^Mfes  d  bee.  The  recorder  was  soft  in  tone,  and 
an  octave  higher  than  the  flute.  Milton  speaks  ('  Par.  Lost,'  i. 
550)  of 

the  Dorian  mood 

Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders. 

It  would  appear  from  Bacon's  '  Sylva  Sylvarum,'  cent.  iii.  22] , 
that  tliis  instrument  was  larger  in  the  lower  tlian  in  the  upper 
part ;  and  a  wood-cut  of  the  flageolet,  in  Mersenne's  '  Harmo- 
nie  Universelle,'  leads  to  the  same  conclusion.  On  the  etj- 
mology  of  the  word  much  ingenuity  has  been  bestowed,  but 
without  any  Siitisfactory  result. 

•1  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  have  intimated,  by  some 
signal,  that  they  wish  to  speak  with  Hamlet  in  private. 


Ham.  I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will 
you  play  upon  this  pipe  ? 

GitU.  My  lord,  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  pray  you. 

Gu/l.  Believe  me,  I  cannot. 

Ham.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Guil.  I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord. 

Ham.  'Tis  as  easy  as  lying :  govern  these 
ventages  with  your  fingers  and  thumb,  give  it 
breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will  discourse 
most  excellent  music.  Look  you,  these  are  the 
stops. 

Guil.  But  these  cannot  I  command  to  any 
utterance  of  harmony ;   I  have  not  the  skill. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  now,  how  unworthy  a 
thing  you  make  of  me.  You  would  play  upon 
me ;  you  would  seem  to  know  my  stops ;  you 
would  pluck  out  the  heart  of  my  mystery ;  you 
would  sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to  the  top 
of  my  compass :  and  there  is  much  music,  ex- 
cellent voice,  in  this  little  organ  ;  yet  cannot  you 
make  it.*  Why,  do  you  think  that  I  am  easier 
to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe?  Call  me  what 
instrument  you  will,  though  you  can  fret  me, 
you  cannot  play  upon  me.  ^ 

Enter  Polonius. 
God  bless  you,  sir ! 

Pol.  My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with 
you,  and  presently. 

Haiti.  Do  you  see  that  cloud,  that's  almost  in 
shape  like  a  camel  ? 

Pol.  By  the  mass,  and  'tis  like  a  camel, 
indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks,  it  is  like  a  weasel. 

Pol.  It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Ham.  Or,  like  a  whale? 

Pol.  Very  like  a  whale. 

Ham.  Then  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by  and 
by. — They  fool  me  to  the  top  of  my  bent. — I 
wiU  come  by  and  by. 

Pol.  I  will  say  so.  {Exit  Polonius. 

Ham.  By  and  by  is  easily  said. — Leave  me, 
friends.  \_Exeunt  Ros.  Guil.  Hor.,  S^c. 

'Tis  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night ; 

»  So  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  "  yet  cannot  you  make  it 
speak."  The  poet  certainly  meant  to  say,  yet  cannot  you 
make  this  music,  this  excellent  voice.  Guildenstern  could 
have  made  the  pipe  speuh,  but  he  could  not  command  it  to 
any  utterance  of  harmony.  We  believe  that  even  in  the 
quarto  the  passage  has  not  the  meaning  which  we  find  in  the 
modern  text,  but  that  it  should  be  printed,  "  there  is  mucli 
music,  excellent  voice,  in  this  little  organ,  yet  cannot  you 
make  it.     Speak  !     S'blood,  do  you  think,"  &c. 

^  The  musical  allusion  is  continued.  The/refs  of  all  insti-u- 
ments  of  the  lute  or  guitar  kind,  are  thick  wires  fixed  at  cer- 
tain distances  across  the  finger-board,  on  which  the  strings  are 
sfd/ippd,  or  pressed  by  the  fingers.  Nares  thinks  that  the  word 
is  derixod  i'rom  frctujii;  but  the  French  verb  f rotter  seems  the 
more  likely  source. 

135 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  III. 


When  chiirchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes 

out 
Contagion  to  this  world  :  Now  could  I  drink  hot 

blood. 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the  day 
Would  quake  to  look   on.     Soft;    now  to  my 

mother. — 
O,  heart,  lose  not  thy  natvire ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom : 
Let  me  be  cruel  not  unnatural : 
I  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none  ; 
My  tongue  and  soul  in  this  be  hypocrites : 
How  in  my  words  soever  she  be  shent,* 
To  give  them  seals''  never,  my  soul,  consent! 

lExit. 
SCENE  HL — A  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  King,  Rosencrantz,  and  Guildenstern. 

King.  I  like  him  not;  nor  stands  it  safe  with 
us, 
To  let  his  madness  range.     Therefore,  prepare 

you; 
I  yovu'  commission  will  forthwith  despatch, 
And  he  to  England  shall  along  with  you : 
The  terms  of  our  estate  may  not  endure 
Hazard  so  dangerous,<=  as  doth  hourly  grow 
Out  of  his  lunacies."^ 

Guil.  We  will  ourselves  provide : 

Most  holy  and  religious  fear  it  is, 
To  keep  those  many  many  bodies  safe, 
That  live  and  feed  upon  your  majesty. 

Eos.  The  single  and  pecidiar  life  is  bound. 
With  all  the  strength  and  armour  of  the  mind, 
To  keep  itself  from  'noyance ;  but  much  more 
That  spirit,  upon  whose  spirit*  depend  and  rest 
The  lives  of  many.     The  cease  of  majesty 
Dies  not  alone ;  but,  like  a  gulf,  doth  draw 
What's  near  it  with  it :  it  is  a  massy  wheel, 
Fix'd  on  the  summit  of  the  highest  mount, 
To  whose  huge  spokes  ten  thousand  lesser  things 
Are  mortis'd  and  adjoin'd;  which,  when  it  falls. 
Each  small  annexment,  petty  consequence, 
Attends  the  boist'rous  ruin.     Never  alone 
Did  the  king  sigh,  but  with  a  general  groan. 

King.  Arm  you,  I  pray  you,  to  this  speedy 
voyage; 
For  we  will  fetters  put  upon  this  fear, 
Which  now  goes  too  free-footed. 

Jtos.  Guil.  We  will  haste  us. 

l_Exeunt  Rosencrantz  aratZ  Guildenstern. 

"  Shent,  reliiikpd ;  or  prolialjly  here,  hurt. 

^  To  give  them  seals — to  give  my  words  seals ;  to  make  my 
sayings  deeds. 

'  Dangerous,  in  folio ;  in  quartos,  near  us. 

d  Lunacies,  iu  folio;  in  quartos,  brows,  wliich  Theobald 
dianp;ed  to  limes. 

"  Spirit,  iu  folio;  in  quartos,  weal. 

136 


E7iter  PoLONius. 
Pol.    My   lord,   he's   going   to   his   mother's 
closet : 
Behind  the  arras  I'll  convey  myself, 
To  hear  the  process;  I'll  warrant,  she'll  tax  him 

home. 
And,  as  you  said,  and  wisely  was  it  said, 
'Tis  meet,  that  some  more  audience  than  a  mo- 
ther. 
Since  nature  makes  them  partial,  should  o'erhear 
The  speech  of  vantage.   Fare  you  well,  my  liege : 
I'll  call  upon  you  ere  you  go  to  bed, 
And  tell  you  what  I  know. 

King.  Thanks,  dear  my  lord. 

\^Exit  POLONIUS. 

O,  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven ; 
It  hath  the  primal  eldest  curse  upon't, 
A  brother's  murther! — Pray  can  I  not. 
Though  inclination  be  as  sharp  as  will ; 
My  stronger  guilt  defeats  my  strong  intent; 
And,  like  a  man  to  double  business  bound, 
I  stand  in  pause  where  I  shall  first  begin. 
And  both  neglect.     What  if  this  cvirsed  hand 
Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blood? 
Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens, 
To  wash  it   white   as   snow?     Whereto   serves 

mercy, 
But  to  confront  the  visage  of  offence? 
And  what's  in  prayer,  but  this  two-fold  force, — 
To  be  forestalled,  ere  we  come  to  fall. 
Or  pardon'd,  being  down?  Then  I'll  look  up; 
My  fault  is  past.     But,  O,  what  form  of  prayer 
Can  serve  my  turn?    Forgive  me  my  foul  mur- 
ther!— 
That  cannot  be;  since  I  am  still  possess'd 
Of  those  effects  for  which  I  did  the  murther. 
My  crown,  mine  own  ambition,  and  my  queen. 
May  one  be  pardon'd,  and  retain  the  offence  ? 
In  the  corrupted  currents  of  this  world. 
Offence's  gilded  hand  may  shove  by  justice; 
And  oft  'tis  seen,  the  wicked  prize  itself 
Buys  out  the  law :  But  'tis  not  so  above : 
There  is  no  shuffling,  there  the  action  lies 
In  his  true  nature;  and  we  ourselves  compell'd. 
Even  to  the  teeth  and  forehead  of  oiu-  faidts. 
To  give  in  evidence.     What  then?  what  rests? 
Try  what  repentance  can :  What  can  it  not? 
Yet  what  can  it,  when  one  can  not  repent? 
O  wretched  state?  O  bosom,  black  as  death! 
O  limed  sovd;  that  strviggling  to  be  free. 
Art  more  engag'd!  Help,  angels,  make  assay! 
Bow,  stubborn  knees!  and,  heart,  with  strings 

of  steel. 
Be  soft  as  sinews  of  the  new-born  babe : 
All  may  be  well !  \_Retires,  and  kneeh. 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV. 


Enter  Hamlet. 
Ham.  Now  might  I  do  it,  pat,  now  he  is  pray- 
ing; 
And  now  I'll  do't; — and  so  he  goes  to  heaven: 
And  so  am  I  I'eveng'd?  That  would  he  scann'd : 
A  villain  kills  my  father;  and,  for  that, 
I,  his  sole  son,  do  this  same  villain  send 
To  heaven. 

O,  this  is  hire  and  salary,  not  revenge. 
He  took  my  father  grossly,  full  of  bread  f 
With  all  his  crimes  broad  blown,  as  fresh  as  May; 
And,  how  his  audit  stands,  who  knows,    save 

heaven  ? 
But,  in  our  circumstance  and  course  of  thought, 
'Tis  hea\y  Avith  him :  And  am  I  then  reveng'd, 
To  take  him  in  the  purging  of  his  sovd. 
When  he  is  fit  and  season'd  for  his  passage? 
No. 

Up,  sword;  and  know  thou  a  more  horrid  hent:'' 
When  he  is  drvmk,  asleep,  or  in  his  rage ; 
Or  in  the  incestuous  pleasure  of  his  bed ; 
At  gaming,  swearing ;  or  about  some  act 
That  has  no  relish  of  salvation  in't : 
Then  trip  him,  that  liis  heels  may  kick  at  heaven ; 
And  that  his  soul  may  be  as  damn'd,  and  black. 
As  hell,  whereto  it  goes.     My  mother  stays : 
This  physic  but  prolongs  thy  sickly  days.  lExit. 

The  King  rises  and  advances. 
King.  My  words  fly  up,  my  thoughts  remain 
below : 
Words,  without  thoughts,  never  to  heaven  go. 

[_Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — Another  Boom  in  the  same. 
Enter  Queen  and  Polonius. 

Pol.  He  will  come  straight.     Look,  you  lay 
home  to  him: 
Tell  him,  his  pranks  have  been  too  broad  to  bear 

with; 
And  that  your  grace  hath  screen'd  and  stood  be- 
tween 
Much  heat  and  him.     I'll  silence  me  e'en  here. 
Pray  you,  be  rovmd  with  him. 

Ham.  (Within.)  Mother!  mother!  mother !*= 
Queen.  I'll  warrant  you; 

Fear  me  not : — withdraw,  I  hear  him  coming. 

[Polonius  hides  himself. 


«  Full  of  bread.  Shakspere  found  this  remarkable  expres- 
sion ill  the  Bible: — "  Behold  this  was  the  ini<iuity  of  thy 
sister  Sodom  ;  ^v\(\e,  fullness  of  bread,  and  abundance  of  idle- 
ness was  in  her  and  in  her  daui^hters."     (Ezehiel,  xvi.  49.) 

I"  To  hent,  is  to  seize ;  "  know  thou  a  more  horrid  Itcnt,"  is, 
have  a  more  horrid  grasp. 

•:  This  call  of  Hamlet  is  not  in  the  quartos. 


Enter  Hamlet. 
Ham.  Now,  mother;  what's  the  matter? 
Queen.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father   much 

offended. 
Ham.  Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  of- 
fended. 
Queen.  Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle 

tongue. 
Ham.  Go,  go,  you  question  with  an  idle''  tongue. 
Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet? 
Hain.  What's  the  matter  now  ? 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me? 
Ham.  No,  by  the  rood,  not  so : 

You  are  the  queen,   your  husband's   brother's 

wife; 
But  would  you  were  not  so !  You  are  my  mother. 
Queen.  Nay,  then  I'll  set  those  to  you  that 

can  speak. 
Ham.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down;  you 
shall  not  budge ; 
You  go  not,  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 
Queen.  What   wilt   thou   do?  thou   wilt  not 
murder  me? 
Help,  help,  ho ! 

Pol.  \_Behind.'\  What,  ho!  help!  help!  help! 
Ham.  How  now!  a  rat?  [^Draws. 

Dead,  for  a  ducat,  dead, 

[Hamlet  makes  a  pass  through  the  arras. 
Pol.  \_Behi7id.']  01  am  slain.   \_Falls,  and  dies. 
Queen.  O  me,  what  hast  thou  done? 
Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not: 

Is  it  the  king? 

[^Lifts  up  the  arras,  and  draws  forth  Polonius. 
Queen.  O,  what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed  is  this ! 
Ham.  A  bloody  deed; — almost  as  bad,  good 
mother, 
As  kill  a  king,  and  marry  with  his  brother. 
Queen.  As  kill  a  king ! 

Ham.  Ay,  lady,  'twas  my  word. — 

Thou  wretched,  rash,  intruding  fool,  farewell ! 

[To  Polonius. 
I  took  thee  for  thy  betters;  take  thy  fortime: 
Thou  find'st,  to  be  too  busy  is  some  danger. — 
Leave  wringing  of  your  hands:  Peace,  sit  you 

down. 
And  let  me  wring  your  heart :  for  so  I  shall. 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff; 
If  damned  custom  have  not  braz'd  it  so. 
That  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 
Queen.  What  have  I  done,  that  thou  dar'st 
wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

•  Idle,  in  folio ;  in  quartos,  wicked. 

137 


Act  in.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV. 


Ham.  Such  an  act, 

That  Wurs  the  grace  and  bhish  of  modesty; 
Calls  vh-tue,  hypocrite ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love. 
And  sets*  a  blister  there;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers'  oaths :  O,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words:  Heaven's  face  doth  glow; 
Yea,  this  solidity''  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom. 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen.  Ah  me,  what  act. 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index  ?  •= 
Ham.  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on 
this ;  * 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  his  brow : 
Hyperion's  ciu-ls;  the  front  of  Jove  himself; 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  or  command ; 
A  station  •*  like  the  herald  Mercury, 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill; 
A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed. 
Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 
To  give  the  world  assiu-ance  of  a  man : 
This  was  your  husband, — look  you  now,  what 

follows : 
Here  is  your  husband;  like  a  mildew'd  ear, 
Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.  Have  you  eyes  ? 
Coidd  you  on  this  fair  mountain  leave  to  feed. 
And  batten  on  this  moor?  Ha !  have  you  eyes? 
You  cannot  call  it  love :  for,  at  your  age. 
The  hey-day  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it's  humble. 
And  waits  upon  the  judgment:  And  what  judg- 
ment 
Would  step  from  this  to  this  ?    [Sense,  sm-e,  you 

have. 
Else,  could  you  not  have  motion :  But  sure,  that 

sense 
Is  apoplex'd:  for  madness  woidd  not  err; 
Nor  sense  to  ecstacy  was  ne'er  so  thrall'd. 
But  it  reserv'd  some  quantity  of  choice. 
To  serve  in   such  a  difference.^]    What  devil 

was't. 
That  thus  hath  cozen'd  you  at  hoodman-blind  ? '^ 
[Eyes  without  feeling,  feeling  without  sight. 
Ears  without  hands  or  eyes,  smelling  sans  all. 
Or  but  a  sickly  part  of  one  true  sense 

»  Sets,  ill  the  qviarto  (B)  ;  in  folio,  makes.  The  repetition 
oi  maltes  is  cei-tainly  inelegant. 

^  This  solidity — tliis  earth.  Heaven  and  earth  are  ashamed 
of  your  act. 

"  The  index,  is  here  used  as  in  Othello: — "  An  index  and 
ohscme  prologue  to  the  history." 

''  Station — manner  of  stiinding,  attitude. 

^  The  lines  in  brackets  are  found  in  quarto  (B),  but  are  not 
in  the  folio.     So  also  the  four  lines  below. 

f  Hoodman-hlind — ^the  game  which  we  call  Vlind-man' s  huff. 
138 


Could  not  so  mope.] 

O  shame  !  where  is  thy  blush  ?  Rebellious  hell. 

If  thou  canst  mutine  in  a  matron's  bones. 

To  flaming  youth  let  virtue  be  as  wax. 

And  melt  in  her  own  fire  :  proclaim  no  shame. 

When  the  compulsive  ardour  gives  the  charge ; 

Since  frost  itself  as  actively  doth  burn. 

And  reason  panders  will. 

Queen.  O  Hamlet,  speak  no  more : 

Thou  tvirn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots. 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct. 

Ham.  Nay,  but  to  live 

In  the  rank  sweat  of  an  enseamed  bed ; 
Stew'd  in  corruption;    honeying,   and   making 

love 
Over  the  nasty  stye ; — 

Quee?i.  O,  speak  to  me  no  more ; 

These  words,  like  daggers,  enter  in  mine  ears; 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet. 

Ham.  A  murderer,  and  a  villain : 

A  slave,  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tythe 
Of  your  precedent  lord: — a  vice  of  kings  :  * 
A  cutpurse  of  the  empire  and  the  ride ; 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

Queen.  No  more. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Ham.  A  king 

Of  shreds  and  patches : — 
Save  me,  and  hover  o'er  me  with  your  wings, 
You  heavenly  guards ! — What  would  you,  gra- 
cious figure? 

Queen.  Alas!  he's  mad. 

Ham.   Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to 
chide. 
That,  laps'd  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  di-ead  command  ? 
O,  say. 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget :  This  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  piirpose. 
But,  look!  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits: 
O,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul; 
Conceit  in  weakest  bodies  strongest  works : 
Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  how  is't  with  you? 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  incorporal  air  do  hold  discoiu'se? 
Forth  at  your  eyes  your  spirits  wildly  peep; 
And  as  the  sleeping  soldiers  in  the  alarm, 


»  Fice  of  kings — the  Vice  of  the  old  Moralities.     See  Ilemy 
IV.,  Part  II.;  Act  in.  Sen. 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV. 


Your  bedded  hair,  like  life  in  excrements, " 
Start  up,  and  stands  on  end.     O  gentle  son, 
Upon  the  heat  and  flame  of  thy  distemper 
Sprinkle  cool  patience.     Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Ham.  On    him !    on   him ! — Look  you,   how 
pale  he  glares ! 
His  form  and  cause  conjoin'd,  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable. — Do  not  look  upon 

me ; 
Lest,  with  this  piteous  action,  you  convert 
My  stern  effects :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
Will   Avant  trae   colour;   tears,   perchance,    for 
blood. 

Queen.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Ham.  Nor  did  you  nothing  hear? 

Queen.  No,  nothing,  but  ourselves. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  there !  look  how  it  steals 
away ! 
My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  pol'tal ! 

[_Exit  Ghost. 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain : 
This  bodiless  creation  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy! 
My  piJse,  as  yom-s,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthfid  music :  It  is  not  mad- 
ness 
That  I  have  uttered :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word;  which  madness 
W  oidd  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace. 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soid. 
That  not  yoiu-  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place; 
Whiles  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  heaven  ; 
Repent  what's  past :  avoid  what  is  to  come ; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  o'er  the  weeds, 
To  make  them  rank.''    Forgive  me  this  my  virtue : 
For  in  the  fatness  of  these  pm'sy  times, 
Virtue  itself  of  vice  must  pardon  beg ; 
Yea,  curb'=  and  woo,  for  leave  to  do  him  good. 

Queen.  O  Hamlet!  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart 
in  twain. 

Ham.  O  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 
And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 
Good  night:  but  go  not  to  mine  uncle's  bed; 
Assiune  a  virtue,  if  you  have  it  not. 
[That  monster,  custom,  who  all  sense  doth  eat — 

•  Excrements — hair,  nails,  feathers,  were  called  oxcre- 
ments.  Isaac  Walton,  speaking  of  fowls,  says,  "  their  very 
excrements  afford  liim  a  soft  lodging  at  night." 

■>  Rank,  in  the  folio  ;  iu  quartos,  ranker . 
'  Curb — to  bend — courber 


Of  habits  devil,'' — is  angel  yet  in  this, — 

That  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 

He  likewise  gives  a  frock,  or  livery. 

That  aptly  is  put  on  :'']  Refrain  to-night : 

And  that  shall  lend  a  kind  of  easiness 

To  the  next  abstinence:  [the  next  more  easy. 

For  use  almost  can  change  the  stamp  of  nature. 

And  master  "^  the  devil,  or  throw  him  out 

With  wondrous  potency.]  Once  more,  goodnight : 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  bless'd, 

111  blessing  beg  of  you.** — For  this  same  lord, 

\_Poinfi)ifj  to  PoLONius. 
I  do  repent.  But  heaven  hath  pleas'd  it  so, — 
To  punish  me  with  this,  and  this  with  me. 
That  I  must  be  their  scourge  and  minister. 
I  will  bestow  him,  and  will  answer  well 
The  death  I  gave  him.     So  again,  good  night ! 
I  must  be  cruel,  only  to  be  kind : 
Thus  bad  begins,  and  worse  remains  behind. — 
[One  word  more,  good  lady.] 

Queen.  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Ham.  Not  this,  by  no  means,  that  I  bid  you  do : 
Let  the  bloat  king  tempt  you  again  to  bed; 
Pinch  wanton  on  your  cheek ;  call  you  his  mouse ; 
And  let  him,  for  a  pair  of  reechy  kisses. 
Or  padling  in  your  neck  with  his  damn'd  fingers, 
Make  you  to  ravel  all  this  matter  out. 
That  I  essentially  am  not  in  madness, 
But  mad  in  craft.      'Twere  good  you  let  him 

know : 
For  who,  that's  but  a  queen,  fair,  sober,  wise, 
Would  from  a  paddock,<=  from  a  bat,  a  gib,  ^ 
Such  dear  concernings  hide  ?  who  woidd  do  so  ? 
No,  in  despite  of  sense,  and  secrecy, 
Unpeg  the  basket  on  the  house's  top. 
Let  the  birds  fly;  and,  like  the  famous  ape, 
To  try  conclusions,  in  the  basket  creep. 
And  break  your  own  neck  down. 

Queen.  Be  thou  assm-'d,  if  words  be  made  of 
breath. 
And  breath  of  life,  I  have  no  life  to  breathe 
What  thou  hast  said  to  me. 

Ham.  I  must  to  England;  yon  know  that? 


»  This  passage  is  gener;dly  printed  thus : — 

"  That  monster,  custom,  who  all  sense  doth  eat 
Of  habit's  devil,  is  angel  yet  in  this." 
The  comment;vtors,  who  have,  contrary  to  the  text  of  the 
quarto,  made  habits  the  genitive  case,  cannot  explain  their 
own  reading.  As  we  liave  printed  the  passage,  we  understand 
it  to  mean,  that  custom,  who  destroys  all  nicety  of  feeling — 
— sense — sensibility, — who  is  tlie  devil  that  governs  our 
habits — is  yet  an  angel  in  this,  &c. 

^  The  lines  in  brackets,  and  the  four  subsequent  lines,  are 
not  in  the  folio,  but  are  found  iu  the  quarto  (B). 

"  Master- — so  the  quarto  (C)  ;  it  has  been  clianged  to  either 
curb,  either  without  curb  being  the  reading  of  quiirto  (B). 

*  I,  as  your  son,  will  ask  your  blessing,  when,  by  your 
altered  life,  you  evince  your  desire  to  be  bless'd. 

*  Pnddoc A— toad  . 
f  Gib — a  cat. 

139 


Act  III.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV, 


Queen.  Alack, 

I  had  forgot;  'tis  so  concluded  on. 

Ham.  [There's  letters   seal'd:    and  my   two 
schoolfellows, — 
Whom  I  will  trust,  as  I  will  adders  fang'd, — 
They  bear  the  mandate ;  they  must  sweep  my  way. 
And  marshal  me  to  knavery :  Let  it  work, 
For  'tis  the  sport,  to  have  the  engineer 
Hoist  with  his  own  petar  :*  and  't  shall  go  hard. 
But  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines. 
And  blow  them  at  the  moon :  O,  'tis  most  sweet, 

»  Hoist  with  his  own  petar — blown  up  with  his  own  engine. 


When  in  one  line  two  crafts  directly  meet.''] 
This  man  shall  set  me  packing. 
I'll  lug  the  guts  into  the  neighbour  room : — 
Mother,  good  night. — Indeed,  this  counsellor 
Is  now  most  still,  most  secret,  and  most  grave, 
Who  was  in  life  a  foolish  prating  knave. 
Come,  sir,  to  draw  toward  an  end  with  you : 
Good  night,  mother. 

l_Exeunt  severally;  Hamlet  draf/giny 
in  the  hody  of  Polonius. 

^  These  lines  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 


^^ 


«-^^:^=i.g^J^ 


^4 


['Tlio  herald  Mercury. 'J 


140 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT   III. 


'  Scene  II.—"  P II  have  a  sut  of  sables:' 
Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  turned  "  I'll  have  a  suit  of 
sables,'"  into  "  I'll  have  a  suit  of  ermi/ie ;"  and 
Warburton  thinks  it  extremely  absurd  that  Hamlet 
and  the  devil  should  both  go  into  mourninj,'.  Neither 
Hanmer  nor  Warburton  perceived  the  latent  irony 
of  Hamlet's  reply.  Ophelia  says  his  father  has 
been  dead  "twice  two  months;"  he  replies,  "So 
longV  nay,  then  let  the  devil  wear  black,  for  I'll 
have  a  suit  of  sables."  Robes  of  sable  were  amongst 
the  most  costly  articles  of  dress ;  and  by  the  Statute 
of  Apparel,  24  Hen.  YI 1 1.,  it  was  ordained  that  none 
under  the  degree  of  an  earl  should  use  sables.  This 
fur,  as  is  well  known,  is  not  black  ;  and  it  is  difficult 
to  know  how  it  became  connected  with  mournful 
associations,  as  in  Spenser — 

"  Grief  all  in  sable  sorrowfully  clad." 
In  heraldry,  sable  means  black ;  and,  according  to 
Peacham,  the  name  thus  used  is  derived  from  the 
fiir.  Sables,  then,  were  costly  and  magnificent ; 
but  not  essentially  the  habiliments  of  sorrow,  though 
they  had  some  slight  association  with  mournful 
ideas.  If  Hamlet  had  said,  "  Nay,  let  the  devil 
wear  black,  for  I '11  have  a  suit  of  ermine,"  he  would 
merely  have  said,  Let  the  devil  be  in  mourning,  for 
I'll  be  fine.  But  as  it  is  he  says,  Let  the  devil  wear 
the  real  colours  of  grief,  but  I'll  be  magnificent  in 
a  garb  that  only  has  a  facing  of  something  like 
grief.  Hamlet  would  wear  the  suit  as  Ben  Jonson's 
haberdasher  wore  it :  "  Would  you  not  laugh  to 
meet  a  great  counsellor  of  state,  in  a  flat  cap,  with 
his  trunk-hose,  and  a  hobby-horse  cloak  ;  and  yond 
haberdasher  in  a  velvet  gown  trimmed  with  sables?" 


2  Scene  II. 


The  dumb  show  e/iters." 


Hamlet  has  previously  described  the  bad  player 
as  "  capable  of  notliing  but  inexplicable  dumb 
show-s."  Mute  exhibitions,  during  the  time  of 
Shakspere,  and  before  and  after,  were  often  intro- 
duced to  exhibit  such  circumstances  as  the  limits  of 
a  play  would  not  admit  to  be  represented.  In  some 
plays  the  order  of  these  dumb  shows  is  minutely 
described;  and  they  generally  represent  scenes 
which  are  not  offered  to  the  understanding  in  the 
dialogue.  We  presume,  however,  that  Shakspere, 
in  the  instance  before  us,  had  some  stage  authority 
for  making  the  dumb  show  represent  the  same  action 
that  is  indicated  in  the  dialogue.  His  dramatic 
object  here  is  evident:  he  wanted  completely  to 
catch  the  conscience  of  tlie  king ;  and  thus,  before 
the  actors  come  to  the  murder  of  Gonzago,  the  king 
is  alarmed,  and  asks,  "  Have  you  heard  the  argu- 
ment'; is  there  no  offence  in  it?" 

^  Scene  II. — "  Afelloicshipin  aery  of  players,'"  8^~c. 

A  cry  of  players  was  a  companj' ;  a  fellowship 
was  a  participation  in  the  profits.  Hamlet  had 
managed  the  jjlay  so  well,  that  his  skill  ought  to 
entitle  him  to  such  a  fellowship  : — "  Haifa  sliare," 
saj's  Horatio;  "a  whole  one,"  says   Hamlet.     In 

TuAOEniKS. — Vol.  I.     U 


Mr.  Collier's  History  of  the  Stage,  vol.  iii.  p.  427, 
we  find  many  curious  details  on  the  payment  of 
actors,  showing  tliat  the  performers  at  our  earlier 
theatres  were  divided  into  wliole-sharers,  three-quar- 
ter-sharers, half-sliarers,  and  hired  men. 

*  Scene  IV. — "  Look  here,  upon   this  picture,  and 
on  this." 

In  a  volume  of  Essays,  written  by  Dr.  Armstrong, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Lancelot  Temple,  we 
have  the  following  observations  on  the  common 
stage  action  which  accompanies  this  passage, — "  As 
I  feel  it,  there  is  a  kind  of  tame  impropriety,  or  even 
absurdity,  in  that  action  of  Hamlet  producing  the 
two  miniatures  of  his  father  and  uncle  out  of  his 
pocket.  It  seems  more  natural  to  suppose,  that 
Hamlet  was  struck  with  the  comparison  he  makes 
between  tlie  two  brothers,  upon  casting  his  eyes  on 
their  pictures,  as  they  hang  up  in  the  apartment 
where  this  conference  passes  with  the  queen.  There 
is  not  only  more  nature,  more  elegance,  and  dignity 
in  supposing  it  thus ;  but  it  gives  occasion  to  more 
passionate  and  more  graceful  action ;  and  is  of 
consequence  likelier  to  be  as  Shakspere's  imagina- 
tion had  conceived  it."  It  is  remarkable  that  this 
stage  practice,  which  involved  the  improbability 
that  Hamlet  should  have  carried  his  uncle's  picture 
about  with  him,  should  have  been  a  modern  inno- 
vation. In  a  print  prefixed  to  Rowe"s  Shakspere, 
1709,  of  which  the  following  is  a  copy,  we  see 
Hamlet  pointhig  to  the  large  pictures  on  the  arras. 
Our  readers  will  smile  at  the  costume,  and  will 
observe  that  the  stage  trick  of  kicking  down  the 
cliair  upon  the  entrance  of  the  ghost  is  more  than 
a  century  old. 


141 


[A  Plain  in  Denmark.] 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— The  same. 

Enter  King  and  Queen.* 

King.  There's   matter  in  these   sighs;   these 
profound  heaves ; 
You  must  translate :  'tis  fit  we  understand  them : 
Where  is  your  son? 

Queen.  Ah,  my  good  lord,  what  have  I  seen 
to-night ! 

King.  What,  Gertrude  ?     How  does  Hamlet  ? 

Queen.  Mad  as  the  seas,  and  wind,  when  both 
contend 
Which  is  the  mightier :  In  his  lawless  fit. 
Behind  the  arras  hearing  something  stir, 
He  v/hips  his  rapier  out,  and  cries,  A  rat !  a  rat!^ 
And,  in  his  brainish  apprehension,  kills 
The  unseen  good  old  man. 

King.  O  heavy  deed! 

It  had  been  so  with  us,  had  we  been  there : 
His  liberty  is  full  of  threats  to  all ; 

=  In  the  quartos,  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  enter  with 
the  King  and  Queen,  and  are  sent  away,  for  a  short  space,  by 
this  line  of  the  Queen  : — 

"  Bestow  this  place  on  us  a  little  while." 
In  the  folio  this  line  is  omitted;  and  Rosencrantz  aiul  Guil- 
denstern come  in  when  Guildenstern  is  called  by  the  King. 
^  In  the  quartos, 

"  Whips  out  his  rapier,  cries,  A  rat !  a  rat ! 

142 


To  you  yourself,  to  us,  to  every  one. 

Alas!  how  shall  this  bloody  deed  be  answer'd? 

It  will  be  laid  to  us,  whose  providence 

Should  have  kept  short,  restrain'd,  and  out  of 

haunt, 
This  mad  young  man :  but,  so  much  was  our  love, 
We  would  not  understand  what  was  most  fit ; 
But,  like  the  owner  of  a  foul  disease. 
To  keep  it  from  divulging,  let  it  feed 
Even  on  the  pith  of  life.     Where  is  he  gone  ? 

Queen.  To  draw  apart  the  body  he  hath  kill'd : 
O'er  whom  his  very  madness,  like  some  ore, 
Among  a  mineral  *  of  metals  base. 
Shows  itself  pure ;  he  weeps  for  what  is  done. 

King.  O,  Gertrude,  come  away! 
The  Sim  no  sooner  shall  the  mountains  touch. 
But  we  will  ship  him  hence :  and  this  vile  deed 
We  must,  with  all  our  majesty  and  skill. 
Both  countenance  and  excuse. — Ho!  Guilden- 
stern ! 

Enter  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern. 

Friends  both,  go  join  you  with  some  further  aid : 

Hamlet  in  madness  hath  Polonius  slain, 

And  from  his  mother's  closet  hath  he  dragg'd  him : 

*  Mineral — mine ;  a  compound  mass  of  metals. 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK, 


[SCKNE   III. 


Go,  seek  him  out ;  speak  fair,  and  bring  the  body 
Into  the  chapel.     I  pray  you,  haste  in  this. 

\_Exeii7it  Ros.  a7id  Guil. 
Come,  Gertrude,  we'll  call  up  our  wisest  friends; 
And  let  them  know,  both  what  we  mean  to  do, 
And  what's  untimely  done :  [so,  haply,  slander, 
Whose  whisper  o'er  the  world's  diameter, 
As  level  as  the  cannon  to  his  blank, 
Transports  his  poison'd  shot,  may  miss  our  name, 
And  hit  the  woundless  air.*]     O  come  away ! 
My  soul  is  fiUl  of  discord,  and  dismay.    \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Safely  stowed,— 

[Kos.  8;c.  within.     Hamlet!  lord  Hamlet!] 
Ham.  What  noise?  who  calls  on  Hamlet?  O, 
here  they  come. 

Enter  Rosencrantz  a??rf  Guildenstern. 

Bos.  What  have  you  done,  my  lord,  with  the 
dead  body? 

Ham.  Compounded  it  with  dust,  whereto  'tis 
kin. 

Ros.  Tell  us  where  'tis ;  that  we  may  take  it 
thence. 
And  bear  it  to  the  chapel. 

Ham.  Do  not  believe  it. 

Ros.  Believe  what  ? 

Ham.  That  I  can  keep  your  counsel,  and  not 
mine  own.  Besides,  to  be  demanded  of'  a  sponge ! 
— what  replication  should  be  made  by  the  son 
of  a  king? 

Ros.  Take  you  me  for  a  sponge,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir ;  that  soaks  up  the  king's  comite- 
nance,  his  rewards,  his  authorities.  But  such 
officers  do  the  king  best  service  in  the  end :  He 
keeps  them,  like  an  ape,  in  the  corner  of  his  jaw ; 
first  mouthed,  to  be  last  swallowed :  When  he 
needs  what  you  have  gleaned,  it  is  but  squeezing 
you,  and,  sponge,  you  shall  be  dry  again. 

Ros.  I  understand  you  not,  my  lord. 

Ham .  I  am  glad  of  it :  A  knavish  speech  sleeps 
in  a  foolish  ear. 

Ros.  My  lord,  you  must  tell  us  where  the  body 
is,  and  go  with  us  to  the  king. 

Ham.  The  body  is  with  the  king,  but  the  king 
is  not  with  the  body.     The  king  is  a  thing — 

Guil.  A  thing,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Of  nothing:  bring  me  to  him.  Hide 
fox,  and  all  after.<=  \_Exeunt. 

*  The  Hues  in  the  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio.  In  the 
quartos  the  sense  is  imperfect,  and  Tlieobald  inserted;  "  so, 
haply,  slander." 

•>  /Jeinanrffdo/— demanded  iy. 

•  The  name  of  a  bojish  sport—"  All  hid." 


SCENE  III. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  King,  attended. 

King.  I  have  sent  to  seek  him,  and  to  find  the 

body. 
How  dangerous  is  it  that  this  man  goes  loose  ? 
Yet  must  not  we  put  the  strong  law  on  him : 
He's  lov'd  of  the  distracted  multitude. 
Who  like  not  in  their  judgment,  but  their  eyes; 
And,  where  'tis  so,    the   offender's  scourge   is 

weigh 'd. 
But  never  the  offence.     To  bear  all  smooth  and 

even. 
This  sudden  sending  him  away  must  seem 
Deliberate  pause :  Diseases,  desperate  grown, 
By  desperate  appliance  are  reliev'd. 

Enter  Rosencrantz. 

Or  not  at  all. — How  now  ?  what  hath  befallen  ? 

Ros.  Where  the  dead  body  isbestow'd,  my  lord. 
We  cannot  get  from  him. 

King.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Ros.  Without,  my  lord ;  guarded,  to  know  your 
pleasure. 

King.  Bring  him  before  us. 

Ros.  Ho,  Guildenstern !  bring  in  my  lord. 

Enter  Hamlet  and  Guildenstern. 

King.  Now,  Hamlet,  where's  Polonius  ? 

Ham.  At  supper. 

King.  At  supper?    Where? 

Ham.  Not  where  he  eats,  but  where  he  is  eaten ; 
a  certain  convocation  of  politic  worms  are  e'en  at 
him.  Your  worm  is  your  only  emperor  for  diet : 
we  fat  all  creatm-es  else,  to  fat  us ;  and  we  fat 
ourselves  for  maggots :  Your  fat  king,  and  your 
lean  beggar,  is  but  variable  service;  two  dishes, 
but  to  one  table ;  that's  the  end. 

\_King.  Alas,  alas! 

Ham.  A  man  may  fish  with  the  worm  that 
hath  eat  of  a  king ;  and  eat  of  the  fish  that  hath 
fed  of  that  worm.''] 

King.  What  dost  thou  mean  by  this? 

Ha77i.  Nothing,  but  to  show  you  how  a  king 
may  go  a  progress  through  the  guts  of  a  beggar? 

King.  Where  is  Polonius? 

Ham.  In  heaven,  send  thither  to  see :  if  your 
messenger  find  him  not  there,  seek  him  i'the  other 
place  yourself.  But,  indeed,  if  you  find  him  not 
this  month,  you  shall  nose  him  as  you  go  up  the 
stairs  into  the  lobby. 

King.  Go  seek  him  there.  [  To  so?7Z(?  Attendants. 

Ham.  He  will  stay  till  you  come. 

[Exeunt  Attendants. 

»  The  lines  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 
143 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  IV. 


King.  Hamlet,  this  deed  of  thine,  for  thine 
especial  safety. 
Which  we  do  tender,  as  we  dearly  grieve 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done,  must  send  thee 

hence 
With  fiery  quickness :  Therefore,  prepare  thyself; 
The  hark  is  ready,  and  the  wind  at  help. 
The  associates  tend,  and  everything  is  bent 
For  England. 

Ham.  For  England? 

King.  Ay,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Good. 

King.  So  is  it,  if  thou  knew'st  our  purposes. 
Ham.  I  see  a  cherub,  that  sees  him." — But, 
come ;  for  England ! — Farewell,  dear  mother. 
King.  Thy  loving  ftither,  Hamlet. 
Ham.  My  mother :  Father  and  mother  is  man 
and  wife ;  man  and  wife  is  one  flesh ;  and  so,  my 
mother.     Come,  for  England.  [^Exit. 

King.  Follow   him  at  foot;    tempt  him  with 
speed  aboard ; 
Delay  it  not,  I'll  have  him  hence  to-night: 
Away;  for  everything  is  seal'd  and  done 
That  else  leans  on  the  affair :  Pray  you,  make 
haste.  \_Exeimt  Ros.  and  Guil. 

And,  England,  if  my  love  thouhold'stat  aught, 
(As  my  great  power  thereof  may  give  thee  sense; 
Since  yet  thy  cicatrice  looks  raw  and  red 
After  the  Danish  sword,  and  thy  free  awe 
Pays  homage  to  us,)  thou  may'st  not  coldly  set 
Our  sovereign  process ;  which  imports  at  full. 
By  letters  conjuring  to  that  effect, 
The  present  death  of  Hamlet.     Do  it,  England; 
For  like  the  hectic  in  my  blood  he  rages, 
And  thovi  must  cure  me :    Till  I  know  'tis  done, 
Howe'er  my  haps,  my  joys  were  ne'er  begun.*^ 

\_Exit. 

SCENE  lY.—A  Plain  in  Denmark. 
Enter  Fortinbras,  and  Forces,  marching. 

Ear.   Go,  captain,  from  me  greet  the  Danish 
king; 
Tell  him,  that,  by  his  licence,  Fortinbras 
Claims'^  the  conveyance  of  a  promis'd  march 
Over  his  kingdom.     You  know  the  rendezvous. 
If  that  his  majesty  would  aught  with  us, 
We  shall  express  our  duty  in  his  eye, 
And  let  him  know  so. 

Cap.  I  will  do't,  my  lord. 

For.  Go  safely"'  on. 

\^Exeunt  Fortinbras  aiid  Forces. 

"  Him,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  them. 

^  80  in  the  folio;  in  the  ([uartos,  "  \\c\\  ne'er  begin." 

■"  Claims,  in  the  folio  ;  iu  tlie  quartos,  craves. 

"*  Safely,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  softly. 

144 


\_^ Enter    Hamlet,     Rosencrantz,    Guilden- 

STERN,  &c. 

Ham.  Good  sir,  whose  powers  are  these? 

Cap.  They  are  of  Norway,  sir. 
Ham.  How  proposed,  **  sir, 

I  pray  you? 

Cap.         Against  some  part  of  Poland. 
Ham.  Who 

Commands  them,  sir? 

Cap.  The  nephew  to  old  Norway,  Fortinbras. 
Ham.  Goes  it  against  the  main  of  Poland,  sir, 
Or  for  some  frontier? 

Cap.  Truly  to  speak,  and  with  no  addition, 
We  go  to  gain  a  little  patch  of  ground. 
That  hath  in  it  no  profit  but  the  name. 
To  pay  five  ducats,  five,  I  would  not  farm  it; 
Nor  will  it  yield  to  Norway,  or  the  Pole, 
A  ranker  rate,  should  it  be  sold  in  fee. 

Ham.  Wliy,  then  the  Polack  never  will  de- 
fend it. 
Cap.  Yes,  'tis  already  garrison'd. 
Ham.  Two  thousand  souls,  and  twenty  thou- 
sand ducats, 
Will  not  debate  the  question  of  this  straw : 
This  is  the   imposthume   of  much  wealth  and 

peace ; 
That  inward  breaks,  and  shows  no  cause  without 
Why  the  man  dies. — -I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. 
Cap.  God  be  wi'you,  sir.  \_Exit  Captain. 

Ros.  Will't  please  you  go,  my  lord? 

Ham.  I   will  be   with   you   straight.     Go  a 
little  before.     \_Exeunt  Ros.  and  Guil. 
How  all  occasions  do  inform  against  me, 
And  spur  my  dull  revenge !     What  is  a  man, 
If  his  chief  good,  and  market  of  his  time. 
Be  but  to  sleep  and  feed?  a  beast,  no  more. 
Sure,  he,  that  made  us  with  such  large  discourse,*^ 
Looking  before,  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  godlike  reason 
To  fust"*  in  us  unus'd.     Now,  whether  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event, — 
A  thought,  which,  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part 

wisdom. 
And  ever,  three  parts  coward, — I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say,  This  thing  s  to  do; 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and 

means. 
To  do't.     Examples,  gross  as  earth,  exhort  me ; 
Witness,  this  army  of  such  mass  and  charge, 

"  The  whole  of  this  seeuc,  in  which  a  clue  is  so  beautifully 
fiu-nishecl  to  the  indecision  of  Hamlet,  is  wanting  in  the  folio. 
It  was  iierhaps  omitted  on  account  of  the  extreme  length  of 
the  play,  and  as  not  helping  on  the  action. 

•>  Proposed — pm-posed.  Steevens  substituted  the  word  ^«r- 
posed,  with  his  accustomed  license. 

"  Sec  Note  on  "  discourse  of  reason,"  Act  i.  Sc.  11. 

''  To  fust — to  become  mouldy. 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  V 


Led  by  a  delicate  and  tender  prince ; 
Whose  spirit,  with  divine  ambition  pufTd, 
Makes  mouths  at  the  invisible  event. 
Exposing  what  is  mortal,  and  unsure. 
To  all  that  fortune,  death,  and  danger,  dare. 
Even  for  an  egg-shell.     Rightly  to  be  great. 
Is,  not  to  stir  without  great  argument, 
But  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  a  straw, 
When  honour's  at  the  stake.    How  stand  I  then, 
That  have,  a  father  kill'd,  a  mother  stain'd, 
Excitements  of  my  reason,  and  my  blood. 
And  let  all  sleep?  while,  to  my  shame,  I  see 
The  imminent  death  of  twenty  thousand  men, 
That,  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame, 
Go  to  their  graves  like  beds ;  fight  for  a  plot 
Whereon  the  numbers  cannot  try  the  cause, 
Which  is  not  tomb  enough,  and  continent, 
To  hide  the  slain? — O,  from  this  time  forth, 
My  thoughts  be  bloody,  or  be  nothing  worth!] 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V. — Elsinore.     A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Queen  and  Horatio. 

Queen.  I  will  not  speak  with  her. 
Hor.  She  is  importunate;  indeed,  distract; 
Her  mood  will  needs  be  pitied. 
Queen,  What  would  she  have? 

Hor.  She  speaks  much  of  her  father;   says, 

she  hears, 
There's  tricks  i'the  world;  and  hems,  and  beats 

her  heart ; 
Spurns  enviously   at  straws;    speaks  things   in 

doubt, 
That  cany  but  half  sense:  her  speech  is  nothing, 
Yet  the  luishaped  use  of  it  doth  move 
The  hearers  to  collection ;  they  aim  at  it, 
And  botch  the  words  up  fit  to  their  own  thoughts ; 
Which,   as  her  winks,   and  nods,  and  gestures 

yield  them. 
Indeed  Avould  make  one  think  there  Avould  be 

thought. 
Though  nothing  sure,  yet  much  unhappily. 
Queen.  'Twere  good  she  were  spoken  with; 

for  she  may  strew 
Dangerous  conjectm'es  in  ill-breeding  minds: 
Let  her  come  in.  \_Exit  Horatio. 

To  my  sick  soul,  as  sin's  tnie  nature  is. 
Each  toy  seems  prologue  to  some  great  amiss : 
So  full  of  artless  jealousy  is  guilt, 
It  spills  itself,  in  fearing  to  be  spilt. 

Re-enter  Horatio  with  Ophelia. 

Oph.  Where  is  the  beauteous  majesty  of  Den- 
mark ? 
Queen.  How  now,  Ophelia? 


Oph.  (sings)  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 
From  another  one? 
By  liis  cockle  hat  and  staff. 
And  his  sandal  shoou.  ' 

Queen.  Alas,  sweet  lady,  what  imports  this 

song? 
Oph.  Say  you?  nay,  pray  you,  mark. 

He  is  dead  and  gone,  lady. 

He  is  dead  and  gone ; 
At  his  head  a  grass-green  turf. 

At  his  heels  a  stone. 

Queen.  Nay,  but  Ophelia, — 

Ojyh.  Pray  you,  mark. 

White  his  sliroud  as  the  mountain  snow. 

Enter  King. 
Queen.  Alas,  look  here,  my  lord. 

Oph.  Lai'ded  with  sweet  flowers ; 

WTiich  bewept  to  the  grave  did  not  go. 
With  ti'ue-love  showers." 

King.  How  do  you,  pretty  lady? 
Oph.  Well,  God 'ield  you!*"     They  say,  the 
owl  was  a  baker's  daughter.     Lord,  we  know 
what  we  are,  but,  know  not  what  we  may  be. 
God  be  at  your  table ! 

King.  Conceit  upon  her  father. 
Oph.  Pray  you,  let  us  have  no  words  of  this ; 
but  when  they  ask  you  what  it  means,  say  you 
this : 

To-morrow  is  Saint  Valentine's  day 

All  in  the  morning  betime. 
And  I  a  maid  at  your  window. 

To  be  your  Valentine: 
Then  up  he  rose,  and  dou'd  his  clothes. 

And  dupp'd  "  the  chamber-door ; 
Let  in  the  maid,  that  out  a  maid 
Never  departed  more. 

King.  Pretty  Ophelia! 

Oph.  Indeed,  la,  without  an  oath,  I'll  make 
an  end  on't: 

By  Gis,  and  by  Saint  Charity, 

Alack,  and  fyefor  shame! 
Young  men  will  do't,  if  they  come  to't; 

By  cock  they  are  to  blame. 
Quoth  slie,  before  you  tumbled  me. 

You  promis'd  me  to  wed: 
So  would  I  ha'  done,  by  yonder  sun. 

An  thou  hadst  not  come  to  my  bed. 

King.  How  long  has  she  been  this? 

Oph.  I  hope,  all  will  be  well.  We  must  be 
patient:  but  I  cannot  choose  but  weep,  to  think 
they  should  lay  him  i'the  cold  ground :  My  bro- 
ther shall  know  of  it,  and  so  I  thank  you  for 
your  good  counsel.  Come,  my  coach !  Good 
night,  ladies;  good  night,  sweet  ladies;  good 
night,  good  night.  \_Exit. 

»  Did  not  go.  So  all  the  old  copies — "  corrected  by  Mr. 
Pope,"  says  Steevens.  Ophelias  song  had  reference  to  her 
father.  He  was  not  a  youth — he  was  not  bewept  with  true- 
Iwe  showers. 

•■  God  'ield  you — God  requite  you. 

<^  Dupp'd.     To  dup  is  to  do  up;  as  to  don  is  to  do  on. 

14o 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  V. 


King.  Follow  her  close ;  give  her  good  watch, 
I  pray  you.  \_Exit  Horatio. 

O !  this  is  the  poison  of  deep  grief;  it  springs 
All  from  her  father's  death  :*  O  Gertrude,  Ger- 
trude, 
When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  single  spies. 
But  in  hattalions !     First,  her  father  slain ; 
Next,  your  son  gone ;  and  he  most  violent  author 
Of  his  own  just  remove :  The  people  muddied. 
Thick  and  unwholesome  in  their  thoughts  and 

whispers. 
For  good  Polonius'  death;  and  we  have  done 

but  greenly,** 
In  hugger-mugger*^  to  inter  him:  Poor  Ophelia, 
Divided  from  herself,  and  her  fair  judgment; 
Without  the  which  we   are  pictures,   or  mere 

beasts. 
Last,  and  as  much  containing  as  all  these. 
Her  brother  is  in  secret  come  from  France : 
Feeds  on  his  wonder,  keeps  himself  in  clouds. 
And  wants  not  buzzers  to  infect  his  ear 
With  pestUent  speeches  of  his  father's  death ; 
Wherein  necessity,  of  matter  beggar'd. 
Will  nothing  stick  our  persons  to  arraign 
In  ear  and  ear.     O  my  dear  Gertrude,  this. 
Like  to  a  murdering  piece,  ^  in  many  places 
Gives  me  superfluous  death.       \_A  noise  loithin. 
Queen.  Alack!  what  noise  is  this? 

Enter  a  Gentleman, 

King.  Where   are   my  Switzers?    Let   them 

guard  the  door : 
What  is  the  matter? 

Gent.  Save  yourself,  my  lord ; 

The  ocean,  ovei-peering  of  his  list. 
Eats  not  the  flats  with  more  impitious*  haste. 
Than  young  Laertes,  in  a  riotous  head, 
O'erbears  yoiur  officers.     The  rabble  call  him, 

lord; 
And  as  the  world  were  now  but  to  begin, 
Antiquity  forgot,  custom  not  known, 
The  ratifiers  and  pi-ops  of  every  word. 
They  cry,  '  Choose  we ;  Laertes  shall  be  king ! ' 
Caps,  hands,  and  tongues,  applaud  it  to  the  clouds, 
'  Laertes  shall  be  king,  Laertes  king ! ' 

Queen.  How  cheerfully  on  the  false  trail  they 

cry! 
O,  this  is  countei',  you  false  Danish  dogs. 

"  In  the  quartos  we  find,  after  this,  "  And  now  behold." 
The  words  are  rejected  in  the  folio. 

^  Greenly — unwisely;  like  novices. 

"  Hugger-mugger.  The  etymology  of  this  ancient  word  is 
very  uncertain.  The  Scotch  have  huggrie-muggrie,  which 
.Tamieson  interprets,  "  in  a  confused  state,  disorderly."  In 
North's  Plutarch,  the  word  is  applied  to  the  burial  of  Csesar  : 
"  Antonius  thinking  good  his  testament  should  be  read  openly, 
and  also  that  liis  body  should  be  honouralily  buried,  and  not 
in  hugger-mugger." 

•^  Muriicrmg-piece—a.  cannon  was  so  called. 

■■  ImpiHuus — unpitving  ;  the  folio  of  1632  gives  us  impetuous. 

146 


King.  The  doors  are  broke.        [^Noise  within- 

Enter  Laertes,  armed;  Danes  foUoiving. 

Laer.  Where  is  this  king? — Sirs,  stand  you 
all  without. 

Dan.  No,  let's  come  in. 

Laer.  I  pray  you,  give  me  leave. 

Dan.  We  will,  we  will. 

l^They  retire  without  the  door. 

Laer.  I  thank  you : — keep  the  door. — O  thou 
vile  king. 

Give  me  my  father. 

Queen.  Calmly,  good  Laertes. 

Laer.  That  drop  of  blood  that's  calm,   pro- 
claims me  bastard ; 
Cries,  cuckold,  to  my  father;  brands  the  harlot 
Even  here,  between  the  chaste  unsmirched  brow 
Of  my  true  mother. 

King.  What  is  the  cause,  Laertes, 
That  thy  rebellion  looks  so  giant-like  ? 
Let  him  go,  Gertrude;  do  not  fear  our  person; 
There's  such  divinity  doth  hedge  a  king. 
That  treason  can  but  peep  to  what  it  would. 
Acts  little  of  his  will.     Tell  me,  Laertes, 
Why   thou   art   thus   incensed; — Let   him  go, 

Gertrude ; — 
Speak,  man. 

Laer.  Where  is  my  father? 

King.  Dead. 

Qtieen.  But  not  by  him. 

King.  Let  him  demand  his  fill. 

Laer.  How  came  he  dead?  I'll  not  be  juggled 
with : 
To  hell,  allegiance  !  vows,  to  the  blackest  devil ! 
Conscience,  and  grace,  to  the  profoundest  pit ! 
I  dare  damnation :  To  this  point  I  stand, — • 
That  both  the  worlds  I  give  to  negligence. 
Let  come  what  comes ;  only  I'll  be  revenged 
Most  throughly  for  my  father. 

King.  Who  shall  stay  you  ? 

Laer.  My  will,  not  all  the  world  : 
And,  for  my  means,  I'll  husband  them  so  well, 
They  shall  go  far  with  little. 

King.  Good  Laertes, 

If  you  desire  to  know  the  certainty 
Of  your  dear  father's  death,  is't  writ  in  your 

revenge, 
That,    sweepstake,    you  will  draw  both   friend 

and  foe, 
Winner  and  loser  ? 

Laer.  None  but  his  enemies. 

King.  Will  you  know  them  then  ? 

Laer.  To  his  good  friends  thus  wide  I'll  ope 
my  arms ; 
And,  like  the  kind  life-rend'ring  pelican,^ 
Repast  them  with  my  blood. 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  VI. 


King.  Wliy,  now  yo\i  speak 

Like  a  good  child,  and  a  true  gentleman. 
That  I  am  guiltless  of  your  father's  death, 
And  am  most  sensibly  in  grief  for  it. 
It  shall  as  level  to  your  judgment  pierce,* 
As  day  does  to  your  eye. 

Danes.  [  Witlt'in.']  Let  her  come  in. 

Laer.  How  now !  what  noise  is  that  ? 

Enter  Ofhv-lia,  fantasticaUy  dressed  with  straws 

and  flowers. 
O  heat,  dry  up  my  brains !  tears,  seven  times 

salt, 
Burn  out  the  sense  and  ^^rtue  of  mine  eye  ! — 
By  heaven,  thy  madness  shall  be  paid  by  weight. 
Till  our  scale  timis  the  beam.     O  rose  of  May  ! 
Dear  maid,  kind  sister,  sweet  Ophelia ! — 
O  heavens  !  is't  possible,  a  young  maid's  wits 
Should  be  as  mortal  as  an  old  man's  life  ? 
Nature  is  fine  in  love  :  and,  where  'tis  fine, 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. 

Oph.  They  bore  him  barefac'd  on  the  bier ; 
Hey  non  nonny,  nonny,  hey  nonny ; 
Aud  on  his  grave  rains  many  a  tear  ; — 

Fare  you  well,  my  dove ! 

Laer.  Hadst  thou  thy  wits,  and  didst  persuade 
revenge. 
It  could  not  move  thus. 

Oph.  You  must  sing,  Down  a-doiim,  an  you 
call  him  a-down-a.  O,  how  the  wheel  becomes 
it !  **  It  is  the  false  steward,  that  stole  his 
master's  daughter. 

Laer.  This  nothing's  more  than  matter. 

Ojih.  There's  rosemary,  that's  for  remem- 
brance ;  ^  pray,  love,  remember :  and  there  is 
pansies,  that's  for  thoughts. 

Laer.  A  document  in  madness ;  thoughts  and 
remembrance  fitted. 

Oph.  There's  fennel  for  you,  and  columbines  : 
— there's  rue  for  you;  and  here's  some  for  me  : 
■ — we  may  call  it,  herb-grace  o'Smidays:"* — oh, 
you  must  wear  your  rue  with  a  difference. — 
There's  a  daisy : — I  would  give  you  some  vio- 
lets ;  but  they  withered  all,  when  my  father 
died : — They  say,  he  made  a  good  end, 

For  bonny  sweet  Robin  is  all  my  joy, — 

Laer.  Thought  and   affliction,   passion,    hell 
itself. 
She  turns  to  favour,  and  to  prettiness. 

"  Pierce,  in  the  folio ;  in  the  quarto,  'penr. 

^  This  is  explained,  "  how  well  is  this  ditty  adapted  to  the 
wheel," — to  be  sung  by  t!.e  spinners  at  the  wheel.  The  bur- 
then of  a  song,  such  as  dou'n  a-doun,  was,  according  to  Stee- 
vens,  called  tlie  wheel. 

"=  Rosemary  was  considered  to  have  the  power  of  strength- 
ening the  memory. 

^  Rve  was  meant  to  express  ruth — sorrow.  For  the  same 
reason  it  was  called  herb-grace;  for  "  he  whom  God  lovctli  lie 
chasteueth." 


Oph.  And  will  he  not  come  again  "r 
And  will  lie  not  come  again  ? 
No,  no,  he  is  dead. 
Go  to  thy  death-bed. 
He  never  will  come  again. 

His  beard  as  white  as  snow. 
All  flaxen  was  his  poll : 

He  is  gone,  he  is  gone. 

And  we  cast  away  moan  ; 
Gramercy  on  his  soul ! 

And  of  all  christian  souls !    I  pray  God.     God 
bewi'you!  [£a;ii  Ophelia. 

Laer.  Do  you  see  this,  O  God  ? 

King.  Laertes,   I  must  common*   with  your 
grief. 
Or  you  deny  me  right.     Go  but  apart, 
Make  choice  of  whom  your  wisest  friends  you 

will. 
And  they  shall  hear  and  judge  'twixt  you  and  me : 
If  by  direct  or  by  collateral  hand 
They  find  us  touch'd,  we  will  our  kingdom  give, 
Ovu-  crown,  our  life,  and  all  that  we  call  ours. 
To  you  in  satisfaction  ;  but,  if  not. 
Be  you  content  to  lend  yoiu'  patience  to  us, 
And  we  shall  jointly  laboiu*  with  your  soul 
To  give  it  due  content. 

Laer.  Let  this  be  so  ; 

His  means  of  death,  his  obscm-e  burial — 
No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment,  o'er  his  bones,^ 
No  noble  rite,  nor  formal  ostentation, — 
Cry  to  be  heard,  as  'twere  from  heaven  to  earth, 
That  I  must  call't  in  question. 

King.  So  you  shall ; 

And,  where  the  oiTence  is,  let  the  great  axe  fall. 
I  pray  you,  go  with  me.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  Rooin  in  the  same. 

Enter  Horatio,  and  a  Servant. 
Hor.  What  are  they  that  would  speak  with  me  ? 
Serv.  Sailors,  sir; 

They  say,  they  have  letters  for  you. 

Hor.  Let  them  come  in. — 

[Exit  Servant. 
I  do  not  know  from  what  part  of  the  world 
I  should  be  greeted,  if  not  from  lord  Hamlet. 

Enter  Sailors. 

1  Sail.  God  bless  you,  sir. 

Hor.  Let  him  bless  thee  too. 

1  Sail.  He  shall,  sir,  an't  please  him.  There's 
a  letter  for  you,  sir ;  it  comes  from  the  ambas- 
sadors that  was  bound  for  England ;  if  your 
name  be  Horatio,  as  I  am  let  to  know  it  is. 

'  To  common,  now  written  commune,  is  to  make  common — 
interchange  thoughts. 

147 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  VII. 


Hor.  {Reads.']  Horatio,  when  thou  shalt  have  overlooked 
this,  give  tliese  fellows  some  means  to  tlie  king ;  they  have 
letters  for  him.  Ere  we  were  two  days  old  at  sea,  a  pirate  of 
very  warlike  appointment  gave  us  chace :  Finding  ouiselves 
too  slow  of  sail,  we  put  on  a  compelled  valour ;  in  the  grapple 
boarded  them :  on  the  instant,  they  got  clear  of  our  ship ; 
so  I  alone  became  their  prisoner.  Tliey  have  dealt  with  me 
like  thieves  of  mercy ;  but  they  knew  what  they  did ;  I  am  to 
do  a  good  turn  for  them.  Let  the  king  have  the  letters  I  have 
sent ;  and  repair  thou  to  me  with  as  much  haste  as  thou 
would' St  fly  death.  I  have  words  to  speak  in  thine  ear,  will 
make  thee  dumb  ;  yet  are  they  much  too  light  for  the  bore  of 
the  matter.  These  good  fellows  will  bring  thee  where  I  am. 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  hold  their  course  for  England ; 
of  them  I  have  much  to  tell  thee.     Farewell. 

He  that  thou  knowest  thine,  Hamlet. 

Come,  I  will  give  yoii  way  for  these  your  letters ; 
And  do't  the  speedier,  that  you  may  direct  me 
To  him  from  whom  you  brought  them.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  King  a7id  Laertes. 

King.  Now  must  your  conscience  my  acquit- 
tance seal 
And  you  must  put  me  in  your  heart  for  friend ; 
Sith  you  have  heard,  and  with  a  knowing  ear, 
That  he,  which  hath  your  noble  father  slain, 
Pursu'd  my  life. 

Laer.  It  well  appears  : — But  tell  me, 

Why  you  proceeded  not  against  these  feats, 
So  crimeful  and  so  capital  in  nature. 
As  by  yom-  safety,  wisdom,  all  things  else. 
You  mainly  were  stirred  up. 

King.  O,  for  two  special  reasons  ; 

Which  may  to  you,  perhaps,  seem   much  un- 

sinew'd. 
And  yet  to  me  they  ai'e  strong.     The  queen,  his 

mother. 
Lives  almost  by  his  looks ;  and  for  myself, 
(My  virtue,  or  my  plague,  be  it  either  which,) 
She's  so  conjunctive  to  my  life  and  soul. 
That,  as  the  star  moves  not  but  in  his  sphere, 
I  could  not  but  by  her.     The  other  motive, 
Why  to  a  public  count  I  might  not  go, 
Is  the  great  love  the  general  gender  bear  him  : 
Who,  dipping  all  his  faults  in  their  affection. 
Would,    like    the    spring  that  turneth  wood  to 

stone. 
Convert  his  gyves  to  graces  ;  so  that  my  arrows, 
Too  slightly  timber'd  for  so  loud  a  wind. 
Would  have  reverted  to  my  bow  again. 
And  not  where  I  had  aim'd  them. 

Laer.  And  so  have  I  a  noble  father  lost ; 
A  sister  driven  into  desperate  terms ; 
Whose  worth,  if  praises  may  go  back  again. 
Stood  challenger  on  mount  of  all  the  age 
For  her  perfections  : — But  my  revenge  will  come. 
King.  Break  not  your  sleeps  for  that :    you 
must  not  think 
148 


That  we  are  made  of  stuff  so  flat  and  dull, 
That  we  can  let  our  beard  be  shook  with  danger, 
And  think  it  pastime.     You  shortly  shall  hear 

more  : 
I  loved  your  father,  and  we  love  ourself ; 
And  that,  I  hope,  will  teach  you  to  imagine, — 
How  now  ?  what  news  1 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  Letters,  my  lord,  from  Hamlet : 

This  to  your  majesty  ;  this  to  the  queen. 
King.  From  Hamlet !  Who  brought  them  1 
Mess.  Sailors,  my  lord,  they  say :  I  saw  them  not. 
They  were  given  to  me  by  Claudio,  he  receiv'd 
them. 

King.  Laertes,  you  shall  hear  them : — Leave 
lis.  \_Exit  Messenger. 

[Reads.']  High  and  mighty,  you  shall  know,  I  am  setnaked 
on  your  kingdom.  To-morrow  shall  I  beg  leave  to  see  your 
kingly  eyes :  when  I  shall,  first  asking  your  pardon  thereunto, 
recount  the  occasions  of  my  sudden  and  more  strange  return. 

Hamlet. 

What  should  this  mean  ?     Are  all  the  rest  come 

back  ? 
Or  is  it  some  abuse,  or  no  such  thing  ? 

Laer.  Know  you  the  hand  ? 

King.  'Tis  Hamlet's  character.     'Naked,' — 
And,  in  a  postscript  here,  he  says,  '  alone  : ' 
Can  you  advise  me  ? 

Laer.  I  am  lost  in  it,  my  lord.     But  let  him 
come : 
It  warms  the  very  sickness  in  my  heart, 
That  I  shall  live  and  tell  him  to  his  teeth. 
Thus  diddest  thou. 

King.  If  it  be  so,  Laertes, 

As  how  should  it  be  so  ?  how  otherwise  ? 
Will  you  be  rul'd  by  me  ? 

Laer.  If  so  you'll  not  o'er-rule  me  to  a  peace. 

King.  To  thine  own  peace.     If  he   be  now 
return'd, — 
As  checking  as  his  voyage,  and  that  he  means 
No  more  to  undertake  it, — I  will  work  him 
To  an  exploit,  now  ripe  in  my  device. 
Under  the  which  he  shall  not  choose  but  fall  ; 
And   for   his   death   no   wind   of    blame   shall 

breathe ; 
But  even  his  mother  shall  uncharge  the  prac- 
tice. 
And  call  it,  accident. 

{Laer.  My  lord,  I  will  be  rul'd  : 

The  rather,  if  you  could  devise  it  so. 
That  I  might  be  the  organ. 

King.  It  falls  right. 

You  have  been  talk'd  of  since  your  travel  much. 
And  that  in  Hamlet's  hearing,  for  a  quality 
Wherein,  they  say,  you  shine  :  your  sum  of  parts 
Did  not  together  pluck  such  envy  from  him. 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Skene  Vll. 


As  did  tliat  one ;  and  that,  in  my  regard, 
Of  the  unworthiest  siege. 

Laer.  Wliat  part  is  that,  my  lord  ? 

King.  A  very  ribband  in  tlie  cap  of  youth. 
Yet  needful  too ;  for  youth  no  less  becomes 
The  light  and  careless  livery  that  it  wears, 
Than  settled  age  his  sables,  and  his  weeds, 
Importing  health  and  graveness." — ]     Some  two 

months  hence. 
Here  was  a  gentleman  of  Normandy, — 
I    have   seen   myself,   and   serv'd    against   the 

French, 
And   they  ran''  well   on   horseback:   but   this 

gallant 
Had  witchcraft  in't ;  he  grew  into  his  seat ; 
And  to  such  wondrous  doing  brought  his  horse. 
As  he  had  been  incorps'd  and  demi-natur'd 
With    the  brave  beast ;    so  far  he  pass'd  *=  my 

thought, 
That  I,  in  forgery  of  shapes  and  tricks, 
Come  short  of  what  he  did. 

Laer.  A  Norman,  was't? 

King.  A  Nornian. 

Laer.  Upon  my  life,  Lamound. 

King.  The  very  same. 

Laer.  I  know  him  well :    he  is  the  brooch, 
indeed. 
And  gem  of  all  the  nation. 

King.  He  made  confession  of  you ; 
A  nd  gave  you  such  a  masterly  report, 
For  art  and  exercise  in  your  defence. 
And  for  your  rapier  most  especially. 
That  he  cried  out,  'twould  be  a  sight  indeed. 
If  one  could  match  you  :  [the  scrimers  ^  of  their 

nation, 
He  swore,  had  neither  motion,  guard,  nor  eye, 
If  you  oppos'd  them  :]  ^  Sir,  this  report  of  his 
Did  Hamlet  so  envenom  with  his  envy. 
That  he  could  nothing  do,  but  wish  and  beg 
Your  sudden  coming  o'er,  to  play  with  him. 
Now,  out  of  this, 

Laer.  Why  out  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

King.  Laertes,  was  your  father  dear  to  you  ? 
Or  are  you  like  the  painting  of  a  soitow, 
A  face  without  a  heart  ? 

Laer.  Why  ask  you  this  ? 

King.  Not  that  I  think  you  did  not  love  your 
father ; 
But  that  I  know  love  is  begun  by  time ; 
And  that  I  see,  in  passages  of  proof, 
Time  qualifies  the  spark  and  fire  of  it. 

»  The  passage  in  brackets  is  not  found  in  the  folio;  but  is 
priuted  from  quarto  (E) . 

^  Ran  well,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  can  well. 
■=  Pass'd,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  topp'd. 
^  Scrimers — fencers;  from  escrimeurs. 
'  The  passage  in  brackets  is  not  in  the  folio. 

TR.iGEDiES. — Vol.  I.     X 


[There  lives  within  the  very  flame  of  love 

A  kind  of  wick,  or  snuff,  that  will  abate  it ; 

And  nothing  is  at  a  like  goodness  still ; 

For  goodness,  growing  to  a  plurisy* 

Dies  in  his  own  too-much :  That  we  would  do, 

We  should  do  when  we  would ;  for  this  ivoiild 

changes, 
And  hath  abatements  and  delays  as  many, 
As  there  are  tongues,  are  hands,  are  accidents  ; 
And  then  this  should  is  like  a  spendthrift  sigh, 
That  hurts  by  easing.     But,  to  the  quick  o'the 

ulcer : ''  ] 
Hamlet  comes  back  :  what  would  you  undertake, 
To  show  yourself  your  father's  son  in  deed'= 
More  than  in  words  ? 

Laer.  To  cut  his  throat  i'the  church. 

King,  No  place,  indeed,  shoidd  murder  sanc- 

tuarize ; 
Revenge   should  have  no  bounds.     But,  good 

Laertes, 
Will    you    do   this,    keep    close    within    your 

chamber  ? 
Hamlet,  return'd,  shall  know  you  are  come  home  : 
We'll  put  on  those  shall  praise  your  excellence, 
And  set  a  double  varnish  on  the  fame 
The  Frenchman  gave  you ;  bring  you,  in  fine, 

together, 
And  wager  on  your  heads  :  he,  being  remiss,** 
Most  generous,  and  free  from  all  contriving. 
Will  not  peruse*  the  foils ;  so  that,  with  ease, 
Or  with  a  little  shuffling,  you  may  choose 
A  sword  unbated,  ^  and,  in  a  pass  of  practice, 
Requite  him  for  your  father. 

Laer.  I  will  do't : 

And,  for  that  purpose,  I'll  anoint  my  sword. 
I  bought  an  unction  of  a  mountebank, 
So  mortal,  that  but  dip  a  knife  in  it. 
Where  it  draws  blood,  no  cataplasm  so  rare. 
Collected  from  all  simples  that  have  virtue 
Under  the  moon,  can  save  the  thing  from  death. 
That  is  but  scratch'd  withal :  I'll  touch  my  point 
With  this  contagion  ;  that,  if  I  gall  him  slightly. 
It  may  be  death. 

King.  Let's  further  think  of  this ; 

Weigh,   Avhat   convenience,    both  of  time   and 

means. 
May  fit  us  to  our  shape  :  if  this  should  fail. 
And  that  our  drift  look  through  our  bad  per- 
formance, 

•  PlurisT/.  Warburton  would  I'ead  pletlwry.  But  phirisy 
was  constiintly  used  in  the  sense  of  fulness,  abundance,  by  the 
poets.  Thus,  in  Massinger,  we  have"  plurisy  of  goodness," 
and  "  plurisy  of  blood." 

^  The  lines  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 

'  In  deed.  So  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  "  indeed  your 
father's  son." 

■•  Remiss — inattentive. 

'  Peruse — examine. 

f   Unbated — not  blunted. 

119 


Act  IV.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  VII. 


'Twere  better  not  assay'd  ;  therefore  this  project 
Sliould  have  a  back,  or  second,  that  might  hokl. 
If  this  should  blast  in  proof.  Soft ; — let  me  see  : — 
We'll    make   a   solemn   wager    on   your   com- 

mings,  * — 
I  ha't. 

Wlien  in  your  motion  you  are  hot  and  dry, 
(As  make  your  bouts  more  violent  to  that  end,) 
And  that  he  calls  for  drink,  I'll  have  prepar'd 

him 
A  chalice  for  the  nonce ;  whereon  but  sipping, 
If  he  by  chance  escape  your  venom'd  stuck, 
Our  purpose  may  hold  there. 

Enter  Queen. 

How  now,  sweet  queen  ? 

Queen.  One  woe  doth  tread  upon  another's 
heel. 
So  fast  they   follow :  —  Your  sister's   drown'd, 
Laertes. 
Laer.  Drown'd ! — O,  where  1 
Queen.    There   is   a   willow   grows   aslant   a 
brook,  ^ 
That  shows  his  hoar  leaves  in  the  glassy  stream  ; 
There,  with  fantastic  garlands  did  she  come,  "^ 

"  Commings — mcetingsiu  assimlt.     T\\Q commingis,i\\cvenue. 
Ill  tlie  quartos  ^ve  have  cunnings. 

^  Aslant  a  hruuh,  in  tlie  folio  ;  in  quartos,  ascaunt  the  bruok. 

"  So  the  folio.     In  the  (juaito  we  have 

"  There  with  fantastic  garlands  did  she  make;" 
which  all  the  modern  editors  have  corrupted  into  "  therewith  ;" 
as  if  Ophelia  made  her  garlands  of  the  willow.  To  "  make  " 
is  used  in  the  sense  of  to  "  come  " — to  make  way — to  proceed. 
The  pertinacity  w  ith  which  the  commentators  upon  this  play 
have  rejected  the  authority  of  the  folio  is  truly  marvellous. 


Of  crow-flowers,  nettles,  daisies,  and  long  purples, 
That  libei'al  shejiherds  give  a  grosser  name, 
But  our  cold  maids  do  dead  men's  fingers  call 

them : 
There,  on  the  pendent  boughs  her  coronet  weeds 
Clambering  to  hang,  an  envious  sliver  broke  ; 
When  down  the  weedy  trophies,  and  herself. 
Fell  in  the  weeping  brook.     Her  clothes  spread 

wide ; 
And,  mermaid-like,  a  while  they  bore  her  up  : 
Which  time,  she  chanted  snatches  of  old  tunes ; 
As  one  incapable  of  her  own  distress, 
Or  like  a  creature  native  and  indued 
Unto  that  element :  but  long  it  could  not  be, 
Till  that  her  garments,  heavy  with  their  drink, 
Pidl'd  the  poor  wretch  from  her  melodious  lay 
To  muddy  death. 

Laer.  Alas  then,  is  she  drown'd  ? 

Queen.  Drown'd,  drown'd. 

Laer.   Too   much   of  water  hast  thou,   poor 
Ophelia, 
And  therefore  I  forbid  my  tears  :  But  yet 
It  is  our  ti'ick  ;  nature  her  custom  holds, 
Let  shame  say  what  it  will :  when  these  are  gone. 
The  woman  will  be  out. — Adieu,  my  lord ! 
I  have  a  speech  of  fire  that  fain  Avould  blaze, 
But  that  this  folly  douts  '^  it.  [^Exit. 

King.  Let's  follow,  Gertrude  ; 

How  much  I  had  to  do  to  calm  his  rage  ! 
Now  fear  I  this  will  give  it  start  again ; 
Therefore  let's  follow.  \_Exeunt. 

*  Duuts,  in  the  folio ;  in  the  quartos,  drown. 


L.^_    -    I*,  iV  fa^- 


150 


[Danish  Ships.] 


[Cockle  Hat  and  St;in'.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT   IV. 


'  Scene  Y.—''^  How  should  I  jjoitr  true  love  knoicV   I 

The  music,  still  sung  in  the  character  of  Ophelia, 
to  the  fragments  of  songs  in  the  Fifth  Scene  of  Act 
IV.,  is  supposed  to  be  the'same,  or  nearly  so,  that 
was  used  in  Shakspere's  time,  and  thence  transmitted 
to  us  by  tradition.    When  Drury-lane  theatre   was 

Plaintively. 


destroyed  by  fire,  in  1812,  the  copy  of  these  songs 
suffered  the  fate  of  the  whole  musical  library ;  but 
Dr.  Arnold  noted  down  the  airs  from  Mrs.  Jordan's 
recollection  of  them,  and  the  present  three  stanzas, 
as  well  as  the  two  beginning — "And  will  he  not 
come  again?"  are  from  his  collection. 


&zd—Ji 


:J^=q=:1: 


jt. 


\j 


1st.  How  should       I 


your       true     love      know. 


=:1:=Ez=£ 


^ 


From 


ther 


^ 


fcif^—r^: 


::i: 


5^E^i 


^ 


-^- 


EES^? 


ifzii: 


2nd.  He        is        dead         and       gone,     la     -    dy. 


A=--X 


He         is        dead 


and 


e-i 


fHzzifczr— li^qV 


=P=:S: 


-o— 

3rd.  While  his      shroud  as    the      mountain        snow. 


-V- 


w=^ 


-e> 


4:=(:==iq= 


Lard  -  ed      all    with      sweet 


ppt 


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L t. 


0 ;• p- 


r^r-f 


^^^=J 


=1= 


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1.51 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 


_c^_ff_^„J_ 


s 


1st.  one?      By     his      coc   -    kle 


*ii^ 


£:*.-•- 


hat    and       staff, 


—^- 


^^- 


'^- 


zc±rjL\ 


And  his        san     -    dal     shoon. 


2nd.  gone !     At     his    head 


grass-green    turf, 


?ztciM 


izzfzd: 


At     his 


heels 


stone. 


-^ 


C3,_ 

=1: 


-t 


c^-f 


3rd.  flowers,  Which  be-wept    to  the  grave  did  not      go. 


With 


true  -  love     showers. 


uModerately  gay. 


:=]S=]V 


-H 1 


,_J «. 


-«-r- 5- 


:fs 


tSz*: 


:tit3:^;?z5: 


1st.      To  -  mor  -  row 


is         St.         Valentine's    day,      All       in         the  morning  be- 


zUtiz^a:: 


3^Si 


-9- 


'Efz-^E 


2nd.  Then    up         he      rose,       and        don'd     his  clothes,  And  dupp'd    the     chamber 


TV   ^ 


iSlifS 


The  two  stanzas  commencing,  "  To-morrow,"  are 
from  the  notation  of  the  late  Wm.  Linley,  Esq., 
as  he  "  remembered  them  to  have  been  exquisitely 
sung  by  Mrs.  Forster,  when  she  was  Miss  Field,  and 
belonged  to  Drury-lane  theatre.""  The  stanzas 
beginning,  "  By  Gis  and  by  St.  Charity,"  may  go  to 
the  notes  set  to  "To-morrow." 


We  have  given  the  melodies  as  noted  by  Dr.  Ar- 
nold and  Mr.  W.  Linley,  but  for  their  bases  and  ac- 
companiments, we  hold  ourselves  alone  responsible ; 
having  added  such  as,  in  our  opinion,  are  best 
adapted  to  the  characters  of  the  airs,  musically 
viewed,  and  to  the  feeling  of  the  scene,  dramatically 
considered. 


152 


•  Sluiksjieare's  Dramatic  Songs,"  ii.  50. 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


i 


ft* 


■F-i — 1 — F-*-, 


tM 


-^Si 


^ 


—I ■ ■ hj—H-l H- 

/— *N ^- 


1st.      time,      And     I       a  maid  at      your    window,     To         be    your  Va  -  len   -  tine. 


iit^: 


1^^=» 


p:p:!^i:j"- 


li^riTT— 


M ^-\ — I — 1_- 


'2nd.    door,     Let     in    tlie  maid  that    out      a    maid, 


never   de-part  -  ed        more. 


Inz ^._,_«_L^^p_^J i:-^.::j_J.5^._J — :L,_^ — ill. 


i 


Plaintively 


^JIMl 


jizz 


--^-:^ 


4. 


-_^_ 


1st.    And 


-« — ^- 


ifill         he  not        come 


And 


lizz 


3E 
-»— 

2nd.    His  beard      was       as         white 


3EEEE 


All 


._4S. 


pp 


-i- 


St 


li- 


:i^ 


»«- 


=z#zzz: 


:i: 


q^:f 


1^=:^-: 


^- 


1st.  will  he     not       come         a     -     gain?      -     -  No,  ^no,     he      is    dead,     Go 


1st.  will  he     not       come 


^^9—^ 


:ii: 


?5F? 


"ESB 


-«'— • 


2nd.  flax    -    en        was 


his        poll;  -     -  He     is  gone!  he     is  gone,  and  we 


-^=F 


-9, 


^ 1 ip 


r^: 


--^-■^- 


--■^ 


— ^^5 ii_ 


-*— F — ^ 


i.5;j 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 


'^^^, 


--tl^-f-- 


—W—O 


:S^=E=i 


1st.     to        tliy    death-bed;        He 


ne  -  ver       will      come 


E^-E^^3 


2nd.  cast       a  -  way    moan :     God     a 

^        iS_. 


=is: 


d: 


*  Scene  V. — "  Like  the  kind,  life-vend' ring 
pelican.''^ 

In  architectural  ornaments,  or  monumental  sculp- 
tures, and  in  old  books  of  fables  and  emblems,  the 
pelican  is  always  represented  as  an  eagle.  As  an 
ornament  in  the  ecclesiastical  structures  of  the 
middle  ages,  it  is  of  frequent  occurrence,  and  is 
generally  found  as  a  pendant  from  the  point  in 
which  the  groinings  of  the  roof  intersect  each  other, 
or  as  a  principal  decoration  in  the  carved  seats  of 
stalls.  Of  the  former,  there  is  a  beautiful  example 
in  the  church  at  Harfleur;  and  of  the  latter,  there 
are  several  very  good  ones  in  St.  Mary's  College, 
Winchester.  Amongst  old  books  of  emblems  there 
is  one  on  which  Shakspere  himself  might  have 
looked,  containing  the  subjoined  representation.  It 
is  entitled,  '  A  Choice  of  Emblemes  and  other  De- 
vices, by  Geffery  Whitney,  1586.'  Beneath  the  cut 
aje  the  following  lines  : — 


154 


"  The  pellican,  for  to  revive  her  youiige. 

Doth  pierce  her  bvest,  and  geve  them  of  her  blood. 
Then  searche  your  breste,  and  as  you  have  with  tonge 
With  penne  proceede  to  doe  our  couiitiie  good : 
Your  zeal  is  great,  your  learning  is  profounde. 
Then  help  our  wantes,  with  that  you  doe  abounde." 

^  Scene  V, — "  No  trophy,  sword,  nor  hatchment, 
o''er  his  bones," 

Sir  John  Hawkins  says,  "  not  only  the  sword,  but 
the  helmet,  gauntlet,  spurs,  and  tabard  (i.  e.,  a  coat 
whereon  the  armorial  ensigns  were  anciently  de- 
picted, from  whence  the  term  coat  of  armour)  are 
hung  over  the  grave  of  every  knight."  We  subjoin 
a  trophy  of  the  period  of  Elizabeth,  placed  o'er 
the  tomb  of  the  Lennard  family,  in  West-Wickham 
Church,  Kent. 


yi"^>> 


[Trophy.] 


¥~^,'- 


[Church  at  Elsinore.] 


ACT   V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Church-Yard. 
Enter  Two  Clowns,  tvifh  spades,  S^c. 

1  Clo.  Is  slie  to  be  buried  in  christian  burial, 
tluit  wilfully  seeks  her  own  salvation  ? 

2  Clo.  I  tell  thee,  she  is ;  and  therefore  make 
her  gi-ave  straight :  *  the  crowner  hath  sate  on 
her,  and  finds  it  a  christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  How  can  that  be,  unless  she  drowned 
herself  in  her  own  defence  ? 

2  Clo.  Why,  'tis  found  so. 

1  Clo.  It  must  be  se  offendendo ;  it  cannot  be 
else.  For  here  lies  the  point :  If  I  drown  myself 
wittingly,  it  argues  an  act :  and  an  act  hath  three 
branches ;  it  is,  to  act,  to  do,  and  to  perfonn : 
argal,  she  drowned  herself  wittingly. 

2  Clo.  Nay,  but  hear  you,  goodman  delver. 

1  Clo.  Give  me  leave.  Here  lies  the  water ; 
good :  here  stands  the  man  ;  good  :  If  the  man 
go  to  this  water,  and  drown  himself,  it  is,  will  he, 
nill  he,  he  goes  ;  mark  you  that  ?  but  if  the  water 
come  to  him,    and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not 


■'  Slrciijld — stiaightMi 


-lortliwilli. 


himself :  argal,  he,  that  is  not  guilty  of  his  own 
death,  shortens  not  his  own  life. 
2  Clo.  But  is  this  law  ? 

1  Clo.  A)^  marry  is't ;  crowner's-quest  law. ' 

2  Clo.  Will  you  ha'  the  truth  on't?  If  this 
had  not  been  a  gentlewoman,  she  should  have 
been  bm'ied  out  of  christian  burial. 

1  Clo.  Why,  there  thou  say'st :  And  the  more 
pity,  that  great  folk  should  have  countenance  in 
this  world  to  drown  or  hang  themselves,  more 
than  their  even  christian.*  Come,  my  spade. 
There  is  no  ancient  gentlemen  but  gardeners, 
ditchers,  and  grave-makers ;  they  hold  up  Adam's 
profession. 

2  Clo.  Was  he  a  gentleman  V^ 

1  Clo.  He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  arms. 

2  Clo.  Why,  he  had  none. 

1  Clo.  What,  art  a  heathen  ?  How  dost  thou 
understand  the  scripture?  The  scripture  says, 
Adam  digged  ;  Could  he  dig  without  anns  ?  I  '11 
put  another  question  to  thee  :  if  thou  answerest 
me  not  to  the  piu-pose,  confess  thyself — 

"  Even-vhrislinn  —  follow  chrislkui,   equal  chiisti.in.      The 
exiux'ssioii  is  used  by  Chuuccr. 

1J5 


Act  V.;^ 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


2  Clo.  Go  to. 

1  Clo.  What  is  he,  that  builds  stronger  than 
either  the  mason,  the  shipwright,  or  the  car- 
penter ? 

2  Clo.  The  gallows-maker;  for  that  frame 
outlives  a  thousand  tenants. 

1  Clo.  I  like  thy  wit  well,  in  good  faith ;  the 
gallows  does  well :  But  how  does  it  well  ?  it  does 
well  to  those  that  do  ill :  now  thou  dost  ill  to 
say,  the  gallows  is  built  stronger  than  the  church ; 
argal,  the  gallows  may  do  well  to  thee.  To't 
again ;  come, 

2  Clo.  Who  builds  stronger  than  a  mason,  a 
shipwright,  or  a  carpenter  ? 

1  Clo.  Ay,  tell  me  that,  and  unyoke.  ^ 

2  Clo.  Marry,  now  I  can  tell. 

1  Clo.  To't. 

2  Clo.  Mass,  I  cannot  tell. 

Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio  at  a  distance. 

1  Clo.  Cudgel  thy  brains  no  more  about  it ; 
for  your  dull  ass  will  not  mend  his  pace  with 
beating  :  and  when  you  are  asked  this  question 
next,  say  a  grave-maker ;  the  houses  that  he 
makes  last  till  doomsday.  Go,  get  thee  to 
Yaughan  ;  fetch  me  a  stoup  of  liquor. 

\_Exit  2  Clown. 

1  Clown  digs,  and  sings. 

In  youth,  when  I  did  love,  did  love, 

Methought,  it  was  very  sweet. 
To  contract,  O,  the  time,  for,  ah,  my  behove 

O,  methought,  there  was  nothing  meet.  ' 

Ham.  Hath  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  busi- 
ness, that  he  sings  at  grave-making  ? 

Hor.  Custom  hath  made  it  in  him  a  propertj' 
of  easiness. 

Ham.  Tis  e'en  so  :  the  hand  of  little  employ- 
ment hath  the  daintier  sense. 

1  Clo.  But  age,  with  his  stealing  steps. 
Hath  caught''  me  in  his  clutch. 
And  hath  shipped  me  intill  "  the  land. 
As  if  I  had  never  been  such. 

{Throws  tip  a  scull. 

Ham.  That  scull  had  a  tongue  in  it,  and 
could  sing  once  :  How  the  knave  jowls  it  to  the 
ground,  as  if  it  were  Cain's  jaw-bone,  that  did 
the  first  murther!  It  might  be  the  pate  of  a 
politician,  which  this  ass  o'er-offices ;  "^  one  that 
coixld  circumvent  God,  might  it  not  ? 

Hor.  It  might,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Or  of  a  courtier;  which  could  say, 
'  Good-moiTow,   sweet  lord !     How   dost   thou, 

»  Unyulic — finish  your  work  ;  unyoke  your  team. 
''  Caught,  in  folio;  in  quartos,  claw'd. 
•^  Infill,  in  folio ;   in  quartos,  into. 
'^  O'er-iifficcs,  in  folio ;  in  quartos,  o'er-reaches. 
156 


good  lord?'  This  might  be  my  lord  Such-a-one, 
that  praised  my  lord  Such-a-one 's  horse,  when 
he  meant  to  beg  it ;  might  it  not  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  e'en  so  :  and  now  my  lady 
Worm's ;  chapless,  and  knocked  about  the  maz- 
zard  Avith  a  sexton's  spade :  Here's  fine  revo- 
lution, if  we  had  the  trick,  to  see't.  Did  these 
bones  cost  no  more  the  breeding,  but  to  play 
at  loggats  with  them?*  mine  ache  to  think  on't. 

1  Clo.  A  pick-axe,  and  a  spade,  a  spade. 
For — and  a  shrouding  sheet : 
O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

[Throws  vp  a  scull. 

Ha?n.  There's  another !  Why  might  not  that 
be  the  scull  of  a  lawyer?  Where  behis  quiddits* 
now,  his  quillets, ''  his  cases,  his  tenures,  and  his 
tricks  ?  Why  does  he  suffer  this  rude  knave  now 
to  knock  him  about  the  sconce  with  a  dirty  shovel, 
and  will  not  tell  him  of  his  action  of  battery  ? 
Humph !  This  fellow  might  be  in's  time  a  great 
buyer  of  land,  with  his  statutes,  his  i-ecognizances, 
his  fines,  his  double  vouchers,  his  recoveries  :  Is 
this  the  fine  of  his  fines,  and  the  recovery  of  his 
recoveries,  to  have  his  fine  pate  fidl  of  fine  dirt  ? 
will  his  vouchers  vouch  him  no  more  of  his 
purchases,  and  double  ones  too,  than  the  length 
and  breadth  of  a  pair  of  indentures  ?  The  very 
conveyances  of  his  lands  will  hardly  lie  in  this 
box ;  and  must  the  inheritor  himself  have  no 
more  ?  ha ! 

Hor.  Not  a  jot  more,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Is  not  parchment  made  of  sheep-skins  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  of  calves'-skins  too. 

Ham.  They  are  sheep,  and  calves,  that  seek 
out  assurance  in  that.  I  will  speak  to  this 
fellow  : — Whose  grave's  this,  sir  ? 

1  Clo.  Mine,  sir. — 

O,  a  pit  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  is  meet. 

Ham.  I  think  it  be  thine,  indeed  ;  for  thou 
liest  in't. 

1  Clo.  You  lie  out  on't,  sir,  and  therefore  it  is 
not  yours :  for  my  part,  I  do  not  lie  in't,  and 
yet  it  is  mine. 

Ham.  Thou  dost  lie  in't,  to  be  in't,  and  say  it 
is  thine :  'tis  for  the  dead,  not  for  the  quick ; 
therefore  thou  liest. 

1  Clo.  'Tis  a  quick  lie,  sir;  'twill  away  again, 
from  me  to  you. 

Ham.  What  man  dost  thou  dig  it  for  ? 


»  Qiiiddifs — quiddilios — subtleties. 

'■  Q'  illcts — quidlibct — (^what  you    please) — a  frivolous  dis- 
liuctiou. 


Act  v.] 


HAMLirr,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  I. 


1  Clo.  For  no  man,  sir. 

Ham.  Wliat  woman  then  ? 

1  Clo.  For  none  neithei". 

Ham.  Who  is  to  be  bm'ied  in't? 

1  Clo.  One  that  was  a  woman,  sir ;  but,  rest 
her  soul,  she's  dead. 

Ham.  How  absolute  the  knave  is !  we  must 
speak  by  the  card,  *  or  equivocation  will  imdo 
us.  By  the  lord,  Horatio,  these  three  years  I 
have  taken  note  of  it ;  the  age  is  grown  so 
picked, ''  that  the  toe  of  the  peasant  comes  so 
near  the  heel  of  the  courtier,  he  galls  his  kibe. — 
How  long  hast  thou  been  a  grave-maker  ? 

1  Clo.  Of  all  the  days  i'the  year,  I  came  to't 
that  day  that  our  last  king  Hamlet  o'ercame 
Fortinbras. 

Ham.  How  long  is  that  since  ? 

1  Clo.  Cannot  you  tell  that?  every  fool  can 
tell  that :  It  was  the  very  day  that  young 
Hamlet  was  boi"n  :  he  that  was  mad,  and  sent 
into  England. 

Ham.  Ay,  marry,  why  was  he  sent  into 
England  ? 

1  Clo.  Why,  because  he  was  mad :  he  shall 
recover  his  wits  there ;  or,  if  he  do  not,  it's  no 
great  matter  there. 

Ham.  Why? 

1  Clo.  'Twill  not  be  seen  in  him ;  there  the 
men  are  as  mad  as  he. 

Ham.  How  came  he  mad  ? 

1  Clo.  Very  strangely,  they  say. 
,    Ham.  How  strangely  ? 

1  Clo.  'Faith  e'en  with  losing  his  wits. 

Ham.  Upon  what  ground  ? 

1  Clo.  Why,  hei-e  in  Denmark.  I  have  been 
sexton  here,  man  and  boy,  thirty  years. 

Ham.  How  long  will  a  man  lie  i'the  earth  ere 
he  rot  ? 

1  Clo.  'Faith,  if  he  be  not  rotten  before  he 
die,  (as  Ave  have  many  pocky  corses  now-a-days, 
that  will  scarce  hold  the  laying  in,)  he  will  last 
you  some  eight  year,  or  nine  year  :  a  tanner  will 
last  you  nine  year. 

Ham.  Why  he  more  than  another? 

1  Clo.  Why,  sir,  his  hide  is  so  tanned  with  his 
trade,  tliat  he  will  keep  out  water  a  great  while ; 
and  your  water  is  a  sore  decayer  of  your  whore- 
son  dead  bod}'.      Here's    a    scull     now :    this 

«  The  rnrd — "  the  seaman's  card"  of  Macbeth.  A  sea- 
chart  in  Shakspore's  time  was  called  a  card.  Hut  the  drawing 
of  the  points  of  the  compass  is  also  called  the  card.  Steevens 
and  Malonc  dill'er  as  to  whether  a  compass-card  or  u  chart  is 
here  meant. 

i"  Picked,  is  spnice,  affected,  smart ;  to  pick  being  the 
same  as  to  trim.  Some,  however,  think  that  the  word  was 
•lerived  from  picked,  peaked  boots,  which  were  extrava- 
gantly long — and  hence  the  association  with  the  "foe  of  the 
jicasant." 

Traoedies.— Vol..  I.  Y 


scull    has    lain   in    the    earth    tlu'ce-and-twenty 
years.* 

Ham.  Whose  was  it? 

1  Clo.  A  whoreson  mad  fellow's  it  was;  Whose 
do  you  think  it  was  ? 

Ham.  Nay,  I  know  not. 

1  Clo.  A  pestilence  on  him  for  a  mad  rogue ! 
a  poured  a  flagon  of  Rhenish  on  my  head  once. 
This  same  scull,  sir ;  this  same  scull,  sir,"*  was 
Yorick's  scull,  the  king's  jester. 

Ham.  This? 

1  Clo.  E'en  that. 

Ham.  Let  me  see.'=  Alas  poor  Yorick! — I 
knew  him,  Horatio ;  a  fellow  of  infinite  jest,  of 
most  excellent  fancy  :  he  hath  borne  me  on  his 
back  a  thousand  times ;  and  now  how  abhorred 
my  imagination  is !  "^  my  gorge  rises  at  it. 
Here  hung  those  lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know 
not  how  oft.  Where  be  your  gibes  now  ?  your 
gambols?  your  songs?  your  flashes  of  memment, 
that  were  wont  to  set  the  table  on  a  roar  ?  Not 
one  now,  to  mock  your  own  jeering  ?'^  quite  chap- 
fallen  ?  Now  get  you  to  my  lady's  chamber, 
and  tell  her,  let  her  paint  an  inch  thick,  to  this 
favour  she  must  come  ;  make  her  laugh  at  that. 
— Prithee,  Horatio,  tell  me  one  thing. 

Hor.  What's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Dost  thou  think  Alexander  looked  o'this 
fashion  i'the  earth? 

Hor.  E'en  so. 

Ham.  And  smelt  so  ?  puh  ! 

[^Throivs  doivn  the  scull. 

Hor.  E'en  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Ho- 
ratio !  Why  may  not  imagination  trace  the  no- 
ble dust  of  Alexander,  till  he  find  it  stopping  a 
bung-hole  ? 

Hor.  'Twere  to  consider  too  curiously,  to  con- 
sider so. 

Ham.  No,  faith,  not  a  jot ;  but  to  follow  him 
thither  with  modesty  enough,  and  likelihood  to 
lead  it ;  As  thus ;  Alexander  died,  Alexander 
was  buried,  Alexander  returneth  into  dust;  the 
dust  is  earth  ;  of  earth  we  make  loam  :  And  why 
of  that  loam,  whereto  he  was  converted,  might 
they  not  stop  a  beer-barrel  ? 

ImperiaF  Caesar,^  dead,  and  turn'd  to  clay, 

Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away : 

»  So  the  folio.  Tlie  quartos  read,  "  Here's  a  sciiU  now  hath 
lycn  you  i'  the  earth,"  &c. 

^  The  repetition  does  not  occur  in  the  quartos. 

"  l,et  me  see,  is  not  in  the  quartos.  It  supersedes  the  stage 
direction  of  "  takes  the  scull." 

*  So  the  folio.  The  reading  of  the  quarto  (B)  is,  "  and 
how  abhorred  in  my  imagination  it  is."  Abhorred  is  used  in 
the  sewse  o{disgu.<:ted. 

'  Jeering,  in' the  folio  ;  in  the  quartos,  grinninij. 

'  Impcrinl,  in  the  folio;  in  the  (juartos,  impcrimx. 

157 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  I. 


O,  that  that  earth,  which  kept  the  world  in  awe, 
Should  patch  a  wall  to  expel  the  winter's  flaw ! 
But  soft !    but  soft !    aside  : — Here   comes   the 
king. 

Enter  Priests,  Sfc.  in  procession ;  the  corpse  of 
Ophelia,  Laertes  and  Mourners  following  ; 
King,  Queen,  their  Trains,  Sfc. 

The  queen,  the  courtiers:  Who  is  that  they  fol- 
low? 
And  with  such  maimed  rites !  This  doth  betoken, 
The  corse  they  follow  did  with  desperate  hand 
Fordo  its  own  life.     'Twas  of  some  estate  : 
Couch  we  a  while,  and  mark. 

\_Retiring  with  Horatio. 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

Ham.  This  is  Laertes, 

A  very  noble  youth  :  Mark. 

Laer.  What  ceremony  else  ? 

1  Priest.  Her  obsequies  have  been  as  far  en- 
larg'd 
As  we  have  warranties:  Her  death  was  doubtful; 
And,  but  that  great  command  o'ersways  the  or- 
der,'' 
She  should  in  ground  unsanctified  have  lodg'd 
Till  the  last  trumpet ;  for  charitable  prayers,'' 
Shards,*^  flints,  and  pebbles,  should  be  thrown  on 

her. 
Yet  here  she  is  allowed  her  virgin  rites,'' 
Her  maiden  strewments,  and  the  bringing  home 
Of  bell  and  burial. 

Laer.  Must  there  no  more  be  done  ? 

1  Priest.  No  more  be  done  ! 

We  should  profane  the  service  of  the  dead, 
To  sing  sage  requiem,^  and  such  rest  to  her, 
As  to  peace-parted  souls. 

Laer.  Lay  her  i'the  earth ; 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  spring !  I  tell  thee,  churlish  priest, 
A  minist'ring  angel  shall  my  sister  be. 
When  thou  liest  howling. 

Ham.  What,  the  fair  Ophelia  ! 

Queen.  Sweets  to  the  sweet :  Farewell ! 

[^Scattering  flowers . 
I  hop'd  thou  should'st  have  been  my  Hamlet's 
wife; 

"  Order — rule,  canon,  of  ecclesiastical  authority. 

^  For  charUrible  prayers — instead  of  charitable  prayers. 

"  Shards.  A  shard  is  a  thing  shared — divided.  Shards  are 
therefore  fragments  of  ware — rubbish. 

<•  Rites.  So  the  folio.  The  reading  of  the  quarto,  which  is 
usually  followed,  is  crants,  which  means  garlands.  But  the 
"  maiden  strewments"  are  the  flowers,  the  garlands,  which 
piety  scatters  over  the  bier  of  the  young  and  innocent.  The 
rites  included  these,  and  "the  bringing  home  of  bell  and 
burial" — with  bell  and  burial. 

"  Sage  reqiiem,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  a  requiem. 
Sage  is  said  to  be  used  for  grave,  solemn.  We  suspect  some 
corruption . 

158 


I  thought  thy  bride-bed  to  have  deck'd,  sweet 

maid, 
And  not  t'have  strew'd  thy  grave. 

Laer.  O,  treble  woe 

Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head. 
Whose  wicked  deed  thy  most  ingenious  sense 
Deprived  thee  of! — Hold  off  the  earth  a  while. 
Till  I  have  caught  her  once  more  in  mine  anns : 
[Leaps  into  the  grave. 
Now  pile  your  dust  upon  the  quick  and  dead ; 
Till  of  this  flat  a  mountain  you  have  made, 
To  o'er-top  old  Pelion,  or  the  skyish  head 
Of  blue  Olympus. 

Ham.  [Advancing.']  What  is  he,  whose  grief 
Bears  such  an  emphasis  ?  whose  phrase  of  sor- 
row 
Conjures  the  wand'ring  stars,  and  makes  them 

stand 
Like  wonder-wounded  hearers?  this  is  I, 
Hamlet  the  Dane.  [Leaps  into  the  grave. 

Laer.  The  devil  take  thy  soul ! 

[Grappling  tvith  him. 
Ham.  Thou  pray'st  not  well. 
I  prithee,  take  thy  fingers  from  my  throat ; 
Sir,  though  I  am  not  splenetive  and  rash, 
Yet  have  I  something*  in  me  dangerous. 
Which  let  thy  wiseness*"  fear:  Away''  thy  hand. 
King.  Pluck  them  asunder. 
Queen.  Hamlet,  Hamlet! 

Gentlemen.  Good  my  lord,  be  quiet.*" 

[The  Attendants  ^j«7-^  them,  and  they 
come  out  of  the  grave. 
Ham.  Why,  I  will  fight  with  him  upon  this 
theme. 
Until  my  eyelids  will  no  longer  wag. 
Queen.  O  my  son  !  what  theme  ? 
Ham.  I  lov'd  Ophelia;  forty  thousand  bro- 
thers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love. 
Make  up  my  sum. — What  wilt  thou  do  for  her  ? 
King.  O,  he  is  mad,  Laertes. 
Queen.  For  love  of  God,  forbear  him. 
Ham.  Come,  show  me  what  thou'lt  do : 
Woul't    weep?    woul't    fight?     [woul't    fast?] 

woul't  tear  thyself? 
Woul't  drink  up  Esil  ?  ^  eat  a  crocodile  ? 
I'll  do't. — Dost  thou  come  hei'e  to  whine? 
To  outface  me  with  leaping  in  her  grave  ? 
Be  buried  qviick^  with  her,  and  so  will  I ; 


"  Something  in  me.  So  the  folio ;  the  quartos,  in  me  some- 
thing. 

^  IViseness,  in  the  folio  ;  in  the  quartos,  wisdom. 

"  Away,  in  the  folio  ;  in  the  quartos,  hold  off'. 

*  In  the  folio,  this  entreaty  is  given  to  Horatio ;  and  "  Gen- 
tlemen "  is  ejaculated  by  All. 

«  Quick — alive. 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


And,  if  thou  prate  of  mountains,  let  them  thi-ow 
Millions  of  acres  on  ns  ;  till  our  ground. 
Singeing  his  pate  against  the  burning  zone, 
Make  Ossa  like  a  wart !   Nay,  an  thou'lt  mouth, 
I'll  rant  as  well  as  thou. 

'  Queen.  This  is  mere  madness  : 

And  thus  a  while  the  fit  will  work  on  him ; 
Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female  dove, 
When  that  her  golden  couplets  are  disclos'd. 
His  silence  will  sit  drooping.^ 

Ham.  Hear  you,  sir ; 

What  is  the  reason  that  you  use  me  thus  ? 
I  lov'd  you  ever  :  But  it  is  no  matter ; 
Let  Hercules  himself  do  what  he  may, 
The  cat  will  mew,  and  dog  will  have  his  day. 

[_Exit. 

King.  I  pray  you,  good  Horatio,  wait  upon 
him. —  \_Exit  Horatio. 

Strengthen  your    patience   in    our  last  night's 
speech;  [To  Laertes. 

We'll  put  the  matter  to  the  present  push. — 
Good  Gertrude,  set  some  watch  over  your  son. — 
This  grave  shall  have  a  living  monument : 
An  hour  of  quiet  shortly  shall  we  see ; 
Till  then,  in  patience  our  proceeding  be.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.—^  Hall  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Hamlet  and  Horatio. 

Ham.  So  much  for  this,  sir  :  now  let  me''  see 
the  other ; 
You  do  remember  all  the  circumstance  ? 

Hor.  Remember  it,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Sir,  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of 
fighting. 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep  :  methought,  I  lay 
Worse  than  themutines*^  in  the  bilboes.*^  Rashly, 
And  praise  be  rashness  for  it, — Let  us  know. 
Our  indiscretion  sometimes  serves  us  well. 
When  our  dear^  plots  do  pall ;  and  that  should 

teach  us. 
There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends. 
Rough-hew  them  how  we  will.^ 

Hor.  That  is  most  certain. 

Ham.  Up  from  my  cabin. 
My  sea-gown  scarf 'd  about  me,  in  the  dark 
Grop'd  I  to  find  out  them  :  had  my  desire  ; 
Finger'd  their  packet ;  and,  in  fine,  withdrew 

■  In  the  folio,  this  speech  is  given  to  the  King;  in  the  quartos, 
to  Ihe  Queen.  We  think  that  the  assignment  in  the  folio  of  so 
beautiful  aud  tender  an  image  as  that  of  "  the  female  do^e" 
to  a  man  drawn  by  the  poet  as  a  coarse  sensualist,  proceeds 
from  a  typographical  error,  which  not  unfrequently  occurs. 

I"  I,et  me,  in  the  folio ;  in  the  quartos,  shall  you. 

"  Mutines — mutineers. 

^  Bilboes — a  bar  of  iron  with  fetters  attached  to  it. 

'  Dear,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  deep. 


To  mine  own  room  again  :  making  so  bold. 

My  fears  forgetting  manners,  to  unseal 

Their  grand  commission ;  where  I  found,  Horatio, 

0  royal  knavery,  an  exact  command. 
Larded  with  many  several  sorts  of  reason. 
Importing  Denmark's  health,  and  England's  too, 
With,  ho  !  such  bugs  and  goblins  in  my  life, 
That,  on  the  supervise,  no  leisure  bated. 

No,  not  to  stay  the  grinding  of  the  axe. 
My  head  should  be  struck  off. 

Hor.  Is't  possible  ? 

Ham.  Here's  the  commission  ;  read  it  at  more 
leisure. 
But  wilt  thou  hear  me  how  I  did  proceed  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  'beseech  you. 

Ham.  Being  thus  benetted  round  with  villains. 
Ere  I  coidd  make  a  prologue  to  my  brains, 
They  had  begun  the  play  :  I  sat  me  down  ; 
Devis'd  a  new  commission  ;  wrote  it  fair  : 

1  once  did  hold  it,  as  our  statists  do, 

A  baseness  to  write  fair,  and  labour'd  much 
How  to  forget  that  learning ;  but,  sir,  now 
It  did  me  yeoman's  service  :  Wilt  thou  know 
The  effects  of  what  I  wrote  ? 

Hor.  Ay,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.  An  earnest  conjuration  from  the  king, — 
As  England  was  his  faithfid  tributary ; 
As  love  between  them  as  the  palm  should  flourish ; 
As  peace  shovdd  still  her  wheaten  garland  wear. 
And  stand  a  comma  'tween  their  amities ;  * 
And  many  such  like  as's  of  great  charge, — 
That  on  the  view  and  know  of  these  contents. 
Without  debatement  fvu-ther,  more,  or  less, 
He  shoidd  the  bearers  put  to  sudden  death. 
Not  shriving-time  allow'd.'' 

Hor.  How  was  this  seal 'd? 

Ham.  Why,  even  in  that  was  heaven  ordinate ; 
I  had  my  father's  signet  in  my  purse. 
Which  was  the  model  of  that  Danish  seal : 
Folded  the  writ  up  in  form  of  the  other ; 
Subscrib'd  it;    gave't  the  impression;  plac'd  it 

safely. 
The  changeling  never  known :  Now,  the  next 

day 
Was  our  sea-fight :  and  what  to  this  was  sequent 
Thou  know'st  already. 

Hor.  So  Guildenstem  and  Rosencrantz  go  to't. 

Ham.  Why,  man,  they  did  make  love  to  this 
employment ; 
They  are  not  near  my  conscience  ;  their  defeat  <= 


•  Caldecott  explains  this—"  continue  the  pass;igc  or  inter- 
course of  amity  between  them,  and  prevent  the  interposition  of 
a  period  to  it." 

•>  Shrii-ing-time— time  of  shrift,  or  confession. 

«  Defeat,  in  the  quartos ;  in  the  folio,  debate. 

159 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Does  by  their  own  insinuation  grow  : 

'Tis  dangerous,  when  the  baser  nature  comes 

Between  the  pass  and  fell  incensed  points 

Of  mighty  opposites. 

Hor.  Why,  what  a  king  is  this ! 

Ham.  Does  it  not,  think  thee,  stand  me  now 
iipon  ? 

He  that  hath  kill'd  my  king,  and  whor'd  my  mo- 
ther ; 

Popp'd  in  between  the  election  and  my  hopes ; 

Thrown  out  his  angle  for  my  proper  life. 

And  with  such  cozenage ;  is't  not  perfect  con- 
science, 

To  quit  him  with  this  arm  ?  and  is't  not  to  be 
damn'd, 

To  let  this  canker  of  our  nature  come 

In  fm-ther  evil  ? 

Hor.  It  must  be  shortly  known  to  him  from 
England, 

What  is  the  issue  of  the  business  there. 

Ham.  It  will  be  short :  the  interim  is  mine ; 

And  a  man's  life's  no  more  than  to  say,  one. 

But  I  am  very  sorry,  good  Horatio, 

That  to  Laertes  I  forgot  myself; 

For  by  the  image  of  my  cause,  I  see 

The  portraiture  of  his  :  I'll  count  his  favours  : 

But,  sure,  the  bravery  of  his  grief  did  put  me 

Into  a  towering  passion. 
Hor.  Peace  ;  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Osric. 

Osr.  Your  lordship  is  right  welcome  back  to 
Denmark. 

Ham.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir. — Dost  know 
this  water-fly? 

Hor.  No,  my  good  lord. 

Ham.  Thy  state  is  the  more  gracious ;  for  'tis 
a  vice  to  know  him :  He  hath  much  land,  and 
fertile;  let  a  beast  be  lord  of  beasts,  and  his  crib 
shall  stand  at  the  king's  mess  :  'Tis  a  chough  ; 
but,  as  I  say,  spacious  in  the  possession  of  dirt. 

Osr.  Sweet  lord,  if  your  friendship*  were  at 
leisiu-e,  I  shoidd  impart  a  thing  to  you  from  his 
majesty. 

Ham.  I  will  receive  it  with  all  diligence  of 
spirit :  Put  your  bonnet  to  his  right  use  ;  'tis  for 
the  head. 

Osr.  I  thank  your  lordship,  'tis  very  hot. 

Ham.  No,  believe  me,  'tis  very  cold ;  the  wind 
is  northerly. 

Osr.  It  is  indiiferent  cold,  my  lord,  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks  it  is  very  sultry  and  hot,  for 
my  complexion. 

Osr.  Exceedingly,  my  lord ;  it  is  very  sidtry, 

»  Friendship,  in  the  folio;   in  quartos,  lordship. 
IGO 


— as  'twere, — I  cannot  tell  how. — But,  my  lord, 
his  majesty  bade  me  signify  to  you,  that  he  has 
laid  a  great  wager  on  your  head  :  Sir,  this  is  the 
matter. 

Ham.  I  beseech  you,  remember 

[Hamlet  moves  him  to  put  on  his  hat. 
Osr.  Na}'^,  in  good  faith ;  for  mine  ease,  in 
good  faith.  [Sir,  here  is  newly  come  to  court, 
Laertes,  believe  me,  an  absolute  gentleman, 
full  of  most  excellent  differences,  of  very  soft 
society,  and  great  showing :  Indeed,  to  speak 
feelingly  of  him,  he  is  the  card  or  calendar  of 
gentry,  for  you  shall  find  in  him  the  continent 
of  what  part  a  gentleman  woidd  see. 

Ham.  Sir,  his  definement  suffers  no  perdition 
in  you ; — though,  I  know,  to  divide  him  inven- 
torially,  would  dizzy  the  arithmetic  of  memory; 
and  yet  but  raw  neither,  in  respect  of  his  quick 
sail.  But,  in  the  verity  of  extolment,  I  take  him 
to  be  a  soul  of  great  article ;  and  his  infusion  of 
such  dearth  and  rareness,  as,  to  make  true  dic- 
tion of  him,  his  semblable  is  his  mirror;  and, 
who  else  would  trace  him,  his  mnbrage,  nothing 
more. 

Osr.  Your  lordship  speaks  most  infallibly  of 

him. 
Ham.  The  concernancy,  sir  ?  why  do  we  wrap 
the  gentleman  in  our  more  rawer  breath  ? 
Osr.  Sir? 

Hor.  Is't  not  possible  to  understand  in  another 
tongue  ?     You  will  do't,  sir,  really. 

Ham.  What  imports  the  nomination  of  this 

gentleman  ? 
Osr.  Of  Laertes? 

Hor.  His   purse   is   empty   already;    all   his 
golden  words  are  spent. 
Ham.  Of  him,  sir. 

Osr.  I  know,  you  are  not  ignorant — 
Ham.  I  would,  you  did,  sir ;  yet,  in  faith,  if 
you  did,  it  would  not  much  approve  me. — Well, 
sir.*] 

Osr.  You  are  not  ignorant  of  what  excellence 
Laertes  is  at  his  weapon. 

[^Ham.  I  dare  not  confess  that,  lest  I  shoidd 
compare  with  him  in  excellence  ;  but,  to  know  a 
man  well,  were  to  know  himself. 

Osr.  I  mean,  sir,  for  this  vveapon ;  but  in  the 
imputation  laid  on  him  by  them,  in  his  meed 
he's  unfellowed.] 

»  The  long  passage  in  brackets  is  not  given  in  the  folio,  but 
is  found  in  quarto  (B).  Though  it  furnishes  a  most  happy 
satire  upon  the  afl'ccteil  phraseology  of  the  court  of  Elizabeth, 
and  displays  the  wit  and  readiness  of  Hamlet  to  great  advan- 
tage, the  poet  perhaps  thought  it  prolonged  the  main  business 
somewhat  too  much.  Se\eral  other  pass;vges  in  this  scene, 
which  we  find  in  the  (luarto,  aie  omitted  in  the  folio;  and 
these  we  have  placed  in  brackets. 


1 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[SCENK    II. 


Ham.  What's  his  weapon? 

Osr.  Rapier  and  dagger. 

Ham.  That's  two  of  his  weapons:  but,  well. 

Osr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  waged''  with  him  six 
Barbary  horses :  against  the  which  he  has  im- 
poned,''  as  I  take  it,  six  French  rapiers  and 
poniards,  with  their  assigns,  as  girdle,  hangers, 
or  so  :  Tln-ee  of  the  carriages,  in  faith,  are  very 
dear  to  fancy,  very  responsive  to  the  hilts,  most 
delicate  carriages,  and  of  very  liberal  conceit. 

Ham.  What  call  you  the  carriages  ? 

\^Hor.  I  knew  you  must  be  edified  by  the 
margent,  ere  you  had  done.] 

Osr.  The  carriages,  sir,  ai*e  the  hangers.'" 

Ham.  The  phrase  woidd  be  more  german  to 
the  matter,  if  we  could  carry  cannon  by  our  sides : 
I  would  it  might  be  hangers  till  then.  But,  on  : 
Six  Barbary  horses  against  six  French  swords, 
their  assigns,  and  three  liberal  conceited  car- 
riages ;  that's  the  French  bet  against  the  Danish  : 
Why  is  this  imponed,  as  you  call  it? 

Osr.  The  king,  sir,  hath  laid,  that  in  a  dozen 
passes  between  you  and  him,  he  shall  not  exceed 
you  three  hits ;  he  hath  laid  on  twelve  for  nine ; 
and  that  woidd  come  to  immediate  trial,  if  your 
lordship  woiUd  vouchsafe  the  answer. 

Ham.  How,  if  I  answer  no  ? 

Osr.  I  mean,  my  lord,  the  opposition  of  your 
person  in  trial. 

Ham.  Sir,  I  will  walk  here  in  the  hall.  If  it 
please  his  majesty,  it  is  the  breathing  time  of  day 
with  me :  let  the  foils  be  brought,  the  gentleman 
willing,  and  the  king  hold  his  pui-pose,  I  will  win 
for  him,  if  I  can ;  if  not,  I  will  gain  nothing  but 
my  shame,  and  the  odd  hits, 

Osr.  Shall  I  re-deliver  you  e'en  so? 

Ham.  To  this  effect,  sir;  after  what  flourish 
your  nature  will. 

Osr.  I  commend  my  duty  to  your  lordship. 

[Exit. 

Ham.  Yours,  yours.  He  does  well  to  commend 
it  himself;  there  are  no  tongues  else  for's  turn. 

Hor.  This  lapwing  runs  away  with  the  shell 
on  his  head. 

Ham.  He  did  comply*^  with  his  dug,  before  he 
sucked  it.  Tlius  has  he  (and  many  more  of  the 
same  bevy,  that,  I  know,  the  drossy  age  dotes  on,) 
only  got  the  tune  of  the  time,  and  outward  habit 
of  encounter;  a  kind  of  yesty  collection,  which 
carries  them  through  and  through  the  most  fond 

*  JVaged,  in  the  folio ;  iu  the  quartos,  wagered. 

•"  Imponed,  in  the  folio;  in  the  quartos,  impawned. 

"  Ciimpty — \v:is  eomrhiisimt-  In  Fulwel's  '  Arte  of  Flat- 
terie,'  1579,  we  have  the  s:ime  idea: — "The  very  suckinjj 
halies  hath  a  kind  of  adulation  towards  their  nurses  for  the 
dug." 


and  winnowed  opinions;  and  do  but  blow  them 
to  their  trials,  the  bubbles  are  out. 

[^Enter  a  Lord. 

Lord.  My  lord,  his  majesty  commended  him 
to  you  by  young  Osric,  who  brings  back  to  him, 
that  you  attend  him  in  the  hall :  He  sends  to 
know,  if  your  pleasure  hold  to  play  with  Laertes, 
or  that  you  will  take  longer  time. 

Ham.  I  am  constant  to  my  purposes,  they 
follow  the  king's  pleasure :  if  his  fitness  speaks, 
mine  is  ready ;  now,  or  whensoever,  provided  I 
be  so  able  as  now. 

Lord.  The  king,  and  queen,  and  all  are  coming 
down. 

Ham.  In  happy  time. 

Lord.  The  queen  desires  you  to  use  some  gentle 
entertainment  to  Laertes,  before  you  go  to  play. 

Ham.  She  well  instructs  me.        \_Exit  Lord.] 

Hor.  You  will  lose  this  wager,  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  do  not  think  so ;  since  he  went  into 
France,  I  have  been  in  continual  practice ;  I  shall 
win  at  the  odds.  But  thou  woiddst  not  think, 
how  ill  all's  here  about  my  heart :  but  it  is  no 
matter. 

Hor.  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Ham.  It  is  but  foolery ;  but  it  is  such  a  kind 
of  gain-giving,  as  would,  perhaps,  trouble  a 
woman. 

Hor.  If  your  mind  dislike  anything,  obey :  I 
will  forestal  their  repair  hither,  and  say,  you  are 
not  fit. 

Ham.  Not  a  whit,  Ave  defy  augvu-y;  there's  a 
special  providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.  If 
it  be  now,  'tis  not  to  come;  if  it  be  not  to  come, 
it  will  be  now ;  if  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come : 
the  readiness  is  all :  Since  no  man  has  aught  of 
what  he  leaves,  what  is't  to  leave  betimes?* 

Enter  King,  Queen,   Laertes,  Lords,  Osric, 
and  Attendants  with  foils,  S(c. 

King.  Come,  Hamlet,    come,    and   take  this 
hand  from  me. 
[^The  King  j^uts  the  hand  o/"  Laertes  iiito 
that  o/"  Hamlet. 
Ham.  Give  me  your  pardon,  sir:  I  have  done 
you  wrong; 
But  pardon  't,  as  you  are  a  gentleman. 
This  presence  knows,  and  you  must  needs  have 

heard. 
How  I  am  j^imish'd  with  a  sore  distraction. 
What  I  have  done, 

"  So  the  folio.  The  reading  of  the  cjuartos  is,  "  Since  no 
man,  of  aught  he  leaves,  knows,  what  is't  to  leave  betimes  ? 
Let  be." 

161 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


That  might  your  nature,  honour,  and  exception, 

Roughly  awake,  I  here  proclaim  was  madness. 

Was't  Hamlet  wrong'd  Laertes  ?  Never,  Hamlet : 

If  Hamlet  from  himself  he  ta'en  away. 

And,  when  he's  not  himself,  does  wrong  Laertes, 

Then  Hamlet  does  it  not,  Hamlet  denies  it. 

Who  does  it  then  ?    His  madness  :  If  t  be  so, 

Hamlet  is  of  the  faction  that  is  wrong'd ; 

His  madness  is  poor  Hamlet's  enemy. 

Sir,  in  this  audience. 

Let  my  disclaiming  from  a  purpos'd  evil 

Free  me  so  far  in  your  most  generous  thoughts, 

That  I  have  shot  mine  arrow  o'er  the  house, 

And  hurt  my  brother. 

Laer.  I  am  satisfied  in  nature. 

Whose  motive,  in  this  case,  should  stir  me  most 
To  my  revenge :  but  in  my  terms  of  honour, 
I  stand  aloof;  and  will  no  reconcilement, 
TUl  by  some  elder  masters,  of  known  honour, 
I  have  a  voice  and  precedent  of  peace. 
To  keep  my  name  ungor'd :    But  till  that  time, 
I  do  receive  your  offer'd  love  like  love. 
And  will  not  wrong  it. 

Ham.  I  embrace  it  freely; 

And  will  this  brother's  wager  frankly  play. 
Give  us  the  foils ;  come  on. 

Laer.  Come,  one  for  me. 

Ham.  I'll  be  your  foil,  Laertes;  in  mine  ig- 
norance 
Your  skill  shall,  like  a  star  i'  the  darkest  night. 
Stick  fiery  off  indeed. 

Laer.  You  mock  me,  sir. 

Ham.  No,  by  this  hand. 

King.  Give    them   the    foils,    young    Osric. 
Cousin  Hamlet, 
You  know  the  wager  ? 

Ham.  Very  well,  my  lord; 

Your  grace  hath  laid  the   odds   o'the   weaker 
side. 

King.  I  do  not  fear  it:  I  have  seen  you  both. 
But  since  he's  better'd,  we  have  therefore  odds. 

Laer.  This  is  too  heavy,  let  me  see  another. 

Ham.  This  Ukes  me  well :  These  foils  have  all 
a  length  ?  \They  "prepare  to  play. 

Osr.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

King.  Set  me  the  stoups  of  wine  upon  that 
table : 
If  Hamlet  give  the  first  or  second  hit. 
Or  quit  in  answer  of  the  third  exchange. 
Let  all  the  battlements  their  ordnance  fire; 
The  king  shall  drink  to  Hamlet's  better  breath ; 
And  in  the  cup  an  miion  ^  shall  he  throw. 
Richer  than  that  which  four  successive  kings 

*  Vnion — a  very  rich  pearl.    The  quartos  read,  onyx. 
162 


In  Denmark's  crown  have  worn.     Give  me  the 

cups ; 
And  let  the  kettle  to  the  tnimpet  speak, 
The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without. 
The  cannons  to  the  heavens,  the  heaven  to  earth, 
Now  the  king  drinks  to  Hamlet. — Come,  begin ; — 
And  you,  the  judges,  bear  a  wary  eye. 

Ham.  Come  on,  sir. 

Laer.  Come  on,  sir.  [  They  play. 

Ham.  One. 

Laer.  No. 

Ham.  Judgment. 

Osr.  A  hit,  a  very  palpable  hit. 

Laer.  Well, — again. 

King.  Stay,  give  me  drink :  Hamlet,  this  pearl 
is  thine; 
Here's  to  thy  health.     Give  him  the  cup. 

\ Trumpets  sound;  and  camion  shot  off  within. 

Ham.  I'll  play  this  bout  first,  set  it  by  awhile. 
Come. — Another  hit;    What  say  yovi  ? 

[They  jjlay. 

Laer,  A  touch,  a  touch,  I  do  confess. 

King.  Our  son  shall  win. 

Queen.  He's  fat,  and  scant  of  breath. 

Here,  Hamlet,  take  my  napkin,  rub  thy  brows  :* 
The  queen  carouses  to  thy  fortune,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Good,  madam. 

King.  Gertrude,  do  not  drink. 

Queen.  I  will,  my  lord; — I  pray  you,  pardon 
me. 

King.  It  is  the  poison 'd  cup :  it  is  too  late. 

Ha7n.  I  dare  not  drink  yet,  madam ;  by  and  by. 
Queeti.  Come,  let  me  wipe  thy  face. 
Laer.  My  lord,  I'll  hit  him  now. 
King.  I  do  not  think  it. 

Laer.  And  yet  it  is  almost  against  my  con- 
science. \^Aside. 
Ham.  Come,  for  the  third,  Laertes :  You  but 
dally; 
I  pray  you,  pass  with  yoin-  best  violence; 
I  am  afeard  you  make  a  wanton  of  me. 

Laer.  Say  yovi  so?  come  on.         [^Theyplay. 
Osr.  Nothing  neither  way. 
Laer.  Have  at  you  now. 
[Laertes  wounds  Hamlet  ;  then,  in  scuffling, 
they  change  rapiers,  and  Hamlet  wounds 
Laertes. 
King.  Part  them,  they  are  incens'd. 

Ham.  Nay,  come  again.         [T'/icQuEEN/a/fc. 
Osr.  Look  to  the  queen  there,  ho! 

Hor.  They  bleed  on  both  sides: — How  is  it, 
my  lord? 

"  So  the  quartos ;  in  tlie  folio,  tlie  Hue  stands 
"  Here'a  a  napkiu,  rub  thy  brows." 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Osr.  How  is't,  Laertes? 

Laer.  Why,  as  a  woodcock  to  mine  own  springe, 
Osric ; 
I  am  justly  kill'd  with  mine  own  treachery. 

Ham.  How  does  tlie  queen? 

King.  Slie  swoons  to  see  them  bleed. 

Queen.  No,  no,  the  drink,  the  drink,^0  my 
dear  Hamlet! — 
The  drink,  the  drink; — I  ampoison'd!       [^Dies. 

Ham.  O  villainy! — How?    Let  the  door  be 
lockd: 
Treachery!  seek  it  out.  [Laertes /fl/fc. 

Laer.  It  is  here,  Hamlet:  Hamlet,  thou  art 
slain ; 
No  medicine  in  the  world  can  do  thee  good, 
In  thee  there  is  not  half  an  hour  of  life ; 
The  treacherous  instrument  is  in  thy  hand, 
Unbated,  and  envenom'd :  the  foiU  practice 
Hatli  turn'd  itself  on  me;  lo,  here  I  lie. 
Never  to  rise  again:  Thy  mother's  poison'd; 
I  can  no  more ;  the  king,  the  king's  to  blame. 

Ham.  The  point 
Envenom'd  too ! — Then,  venom,  to  thy  work. 

{_Stabs  the  King. 

Osr.  ^  Lords.  Treason !  treason ! 

King.  O,  yet  defend  me,  friends,   I  am  but 
hurt. 

Ham.  Here,     thou    incestuous,     murd'rous, 
damned  Dane, 
Drink  off  this  potion: — Is  thy  imion  here? 
Follow  my  mother.  [King  dies. 

Laer.  He  is  justly  served; 

It  is  a  poison  temper'd  by  himself. 
Exchange  forgiveness  with  me,  noble  Hamlet : 
Mine  and  my  father's  death  come  not  upon  thee, 
Nor  thine  on  me !  {_Dies. 

Ham,  Heaven  make  thee  free  of  it !     I  follow 
thee. 
I  am  dead,  Horatio: — Wretched  queen,  adieu! 
You  that  look  pale  and  tremble  at  this  chance. 
That  are  but  mutes  or  audience  to  this  act. 
Had  I  but  time,  (as  this  fell  sergeant,  death. 
Is  sti'ict  in  his  arrest,)  O,  I  coidd  tell  you, — 
But  let  it  be : — Horatio,  I  am  dead ; 
Thou  liv'st;  report  me  and  my  cause  aright 
To  the  imsatisfied. 

Hor.  Never  believe  it. 

I  am  more  an  antique  Roman  than  a  Dane, 
Here's  yet  some  liquor  left. 

Ham.  As  thou'rt  a  man. 

Give  me  the  cup;  let  go;  by  heaven  I'll  have  it. 
O,  good  Horatio,  what  a  wounded  name. 
Things  standing  thus  imknown,  shall  live  be- 
hind me? 
If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thy  heart. 


Absent  thee  from  felicity  aAvhile, 

And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain. 

To  tell  my  story. 

{^Marck  afar  off,  and  shot  within. 
What  warlike  noise  is  this? 

Osr.  Young  Fortinbras,  with  conquest  come 
from  Poland, 
To  the  ambassadors  of  England  gives 
This  warlike  volley. 

Ham.  O,  I  die,  Horatio; 

The  potent  poison  quite  o'er-crows  my  spii-it; 
I  cannot  live  to  hear  the  news  from  England; 
But  I  do  prophesy  the  election  lights 
On  Fortinbras ;  he  has  my  dying  voice ; 
So  tell  him,  with  the  occun-ents,  more  and  less. 
Which  have  solicited. — The  rest  is  silence.  [Die^. 

Hor.  Now  cracks  a  noble  heart.    Good  night, 
sweet  prince ; 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest! 
Why  does  the  drum  come  hither?  \_Marchwithin. 

Enter  Fortinbras,  fJie  English  Ambassadors, 
and  others. 

Fort.  Where  is  this  sight? 

Hor.  What  is  it  ye  would  see  ? 

If  aught  of  woe,  or  wonder,  cease  your  search. 

Fort.  This  quarry  cries  on  havoc. — O  proud 
death ! 
What  feast  is  toward  in  thine  eternal  cell, 
That  thou  so  many  princes,  at  a  shoot, 
So  bloodily  hast  struck? 

1  Aynb.  The  sight  is  dismal; 

And  our  affairs  from  England  come  too  late : 
The  ears  are  senseless  that  should  give  us  hear-- 

To  tell  him,  his  commandment  is  fulfiU'd, 

That  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  are  dead : 

Where  should  we  have  our  thanks? 

Hor.  Not  from  his  mouth, 

Had  it  the  ability  of  life  to  thank  you ; 

He  never  gave  commandment  for  their  death. 

But  since,  so  jump  upon  this  bloody  question, 

You  from  the  Polack  wars,  and  you  from  Eng- 
land, 

Are  here  arriv'd,  give  order,  that  these  bodies 

High  on  a  stage  be  placed  to  the  view; 

And  let  me  speak,  to  the  yet  unknowing  world, 

How  these   things  came  about:     So  shall  you 
hear 

Of  carnal,  bloody,  and  unnatural  acts ; 

Of  accidental  judgments,  casual  slaughters; 

Of  deaths  put  on  by  cunning,  and  forc'd  cause  ; 

And,  in  this  upshot,  purposes  mistook 

Fall'n  on  the  inventors'  heads :  all  this  can  I 

Truly  deliver. 

163 


Act  v.] 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


[Scene  II. 


Fort.  Let  lis  liaste  to  hear  it, 
And  call  the  noblest  to  the  audience. 
For  me,  with  sorrow  I  embrace  my  fortune ; 
I  have  some  rights  of  memory  in  this  kingdom, 
Which  now  to  claim  my  vantage  doth  invite  me. 

Hor.  Of  that  I  shall  have  always   cause   to 
speak, 
And  from  his  mouth  whose  voice  will  draw  on 

more : 
But  let  this  same  be  presently  perform'd, 
E'en  while  men's  minds  are  wild;  lest  more  mis- 
chance, 
On  plots,  and  errors,  happen. 

Fort.  Let  four  captains 

Bear  Hamlet,  like  a  soldier,  to  the  stage ; 


For  he  was  likely,  had  he  been  put  on. 

To  have  prov'd  most  royally :  and,  for  his  pas- 


The  soldier's  music,  and  the  rights  of  war. 
Speak  loudly  for  him. 
Take  up  the  body:^ — Such  a  sight  as  this 
Becomes  the  field,  but  here  shows  much  amiss. 
Go,  bid  the  soldiers  shoot.  [y^  dead  March. 

\_Exeunt,  marching;  after  ivhich  a  peal  of 
ordnance  is  shot  off. 

"  Body,  ill  the  folio ;  in  the  quartos,  bodies.    Fortinbia.')  has 
ordered 

"  Let  four  capfcvins 
Bear  Hamlet,  like  a  soldier,  to  the  stage." 
This  was  a  peculiar  honour  which  he  meant  for  him.     We 
give  the  concluding  sUige  direction,  as  we  tind  it  in  the  folio. 
"  Exeunt,  bearing  qff'the  bodies,"  is  a  modern  addition. 


-i    '^> 


[Hamlet's  Grave.] 


164 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF   ACT   V. 


*  Scene  I. — "  Crownet''s-quest  law.'''' 

Sir  John  Hawkins  originally  pointed  out  that 
this  ludicrous  description  of  "  crowner's-iinest  law" 
was,  in  all  probability,  "  a  ridicule  on  the  case  of 
Dame  Hales,  reported  by  Plowden  in  his  Com- 
mentaries." This  was  a  case  regarding  the  for- 
feiture of  a  lease  to  the  crown,  in  consequence  of 
the  suicide  of  Sir  James  Hales.  Malone  somewhat 
sneers  at  the  belief  that  Shakspere  should  have 
known  anything  about  a  case  determined  before  he 
was  born  ;  adding,  "  Our  author's  study  was  pro- 
bably not  much  encumbered  with  old  French  re- 
ports." Plowden  was  not  published  till  1578, — in 
old  French,  certaiidy,  as  Malone  says ;  but  we  have 
not  a  doubt  that  Shakspere  was  familiar  witli  the 
book,  as  the  following  extracts  from  the  translation 
of  1779  will  show.  The  clown  says,  "  An  act  hath 
three  branches,  it  is  to  act,  to  do,  and  to  perform." 
Warburton  observes  that  "this  is  a  ridicule  on  scho- 
lastic divisions  without  distinction,  and  of  distinc- 
tions without  difference."  The  precise  thing,  how- 
ever, to  be  ridiculed  is  in  the  speech  of  one  of  the 
counsel  in  the  case  before  us : — 

"  Walsh  said  that  the  act  consists  of  three  parts. 
The  first  is  the  imagination,  which  is  a  reflection  or 
meditation  of  the  mind,  whether  or  no  it  is  conve- 
nient for  him  to  destroy  himself,  and  what  way  it 
can  be  done.  The  second  is  the  resolution,  which 
is  a  determination  of  the  mind  to  destroy  himself, 
and  to  do  it  in  this  or  that  particular  way.  The 
third  is  the  perfection,  which  is  the  execution  of 
what  the  mind  has  resolved  to  do.  And  this  per- 
fection consists  of  two  parts,  viz.,  the  beginning  and 
the  end.  The  beginning  is  the  doing  of  the  act 
which  causes  the  death,  and  the  end  is  the  death, 
which  is  oidy  a  sequel  to  the  act." 

Again,  the  clown  says,  "Here  lies  the  water; 
good;  here  stands  the  man;  good:  If  the  mango 
to  this  water  and  drown  himself,  it  is,  will  he,  nill 
he,  he  goes  ;  mark  you  that :  but  if  the  water  comes 
to  him,  and  drown  him,  he  drowns  not  himself! 
Argal,  he  that  is  not  guilty  of  his  own  death, 
shortens  not  his  own  life."  We  have,  of  course, 
no  such  delicious  exaggeration  as  that  of  the  clown  ; 
but  the  following  reasoning  of  one  of  the  judges  is 
very  nearly  equal  to  it : 

"  Sir  James  Hales  was  dead,  and  how  came  he 
to  his  death?  It  may  be  answered,  by  drowning; 
and  who  drowned  him?  Sir  James  Hales;  and 
when  did  he  drown  him?  In  his  lifetime.  So  that 
Sir  James  Hales  being  alive  caused  Sir  James 
Hales  to  die  ;  and  the  act  of  the  living  man  was  the 
death  of  the  dead  man.  And  then  for  this  offence 
it  is  reasonable  to  punish  the  living  man  who  com- 
mitted the  offence,  and  not  the  dead  man.  But  how 
can  he  be  said  to  be  punished  alive  when  the  punish- 
TiiAGEDiEs. — Vol.  I.     Z 


ment  comes  after  his  death  ?  Sir,  this  can  be  done 
no  otlier  way  but  by  divesting  out  of  him,  from  the 
time  of  the  act  done  in  his  life  which  was  the  cause 
of  his  death,  the  title  and  property  of  those  things 
which  he  had  in  his  lifetime." 

The  determination  in  this  case,  that  the  verdict  of 
felo  de  se  was  legal,  shows  that  the  complaint  of 
the  clown,  "  that  great  folks  shall  have  countenance 
in  this  world  to  drown  or  hang  themselves,"  was 
wholly  unjust. 

®  Scene  I. — "  Was  he  a  gentlemnn  .?" 

This  is  a  ridicule  of  the  heraldic  writers.  In 
Leigh's  '  Accedence  of  Armourie,'  1591,  we  have, 
"  For  that  it  might  be  known  that  even  anon  alter 
the  creation  of  Adam  there  was  both  gentleness  and 
tingentleness,  you  shall  understand  that  the  second 
man  that  was  born  was  a  gentleman,  whose  name 
was  Abel."  The  same  style  of  writing  prevails  in 
older  works,  as  in  the  '  Book  of  St.  Albans.' 

'  Scene  I. — "  Iti  youth,  when  I  did  hve,  did 
love,''''  &c. 

The  three  stanzas  which  the  grave-digger  sings 
are  to  be  found,  making  allowance  for  the  blunders 
of  the  singer,  in  'The  Songs  of  the  Earl  of  Surrey 
and  others,'  1557.  The  poem  is  reprinted  in 
Percy's  Reliques.  It  is  ascribed  to  Lord  ^'aux. 
We  give  the  stanzas  out  of  which  the  clown's  read- 
ings may  be  made  : — 

"  I  loth  that  I  did  love, 

In  youth  that  I  thought  snete. 

As  time  requires  :  for  my  behove 

Me  thiirkes  the\-  are  not  mete. 


'  For  Age  with  steling  steps 

Hath  clawde  me  with  his  croweli. 
And  lusty  Youthe  awaye  he  leapes. 
As  there  had  beae  none  such. 


"  A  pikeax  and  a  spade. 

And  eke  a  shrowding  shete, 
A  house  of  clay  for  to  be  made 
For  such  a  guest  most  mete. 
*        »        «        «        * 

"  For  Beautie  with  her  band. 

These  croked  cares  had  wrought. 
And  shippcil  me  into  the  land. 

From  whence  I  first  was  brought." 

■*  Scene  I. — "  To  play  at  lorjgats  with  them."' 
The  game  of  loggats  is  a  country  play,   in  which 
the  players  throw  at  a  stake,   or  jack,  with  round 
pins.     In    Ben    Jonson's    '  Tale     of  a    Tub'    we 
have : — 

"  Now  are  they  tossing  of  his  legs  and  arms. 
Like  loggats  at  a  pear-tree." 
The  scene  of  the  grave-diggers  lias  always  been 

165 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  V. 


the  horror  of  the  old  French  scliool  of  criticism. 
Voltaire,  by  a  great  generalization,  calls  the  works 
of  Shakspere  a  bundle  of  "  monstntosites  et  fossoy- 
eurs."  But  Voltaire's  criticism  upon  the  grave- 
digging  scene  is  far  less  amusing  than  that  ol  M. 
De  La  Baume  Desdossat,  who,  in  1757,  immortal- 
ized himself  by  the  publication  of  a  'Pastorale 
Heroique:  He  tells  us,  "All  that  the  imagination 
can  invent  most  horrible,  most  gloomy,  most  fero- 
cious, constitutes  the  matter  of  the  English  tra- 
gedies, which  are  monsters  in  which  sublime  senti- 
ments and  ideas  are  found  side  by  side  with  the 
llattest  buifooneries  and  the  grossest  jests.  Shak- 
spere in  one  tragedy  introduces  a  game  at  bowls 
with  death's  heads  upon  the  stagey  ("  Fait  jouer 
a  la  boule  avec  des  tetes  de  mort  sur  le  theatre.") 

'  Scene  I.—"  Imperial  Casar,'^  &c. 
The  dwellings  of  our  countrymen  in  the  time  of 
Elizabeth  were  rude  enough  to  render  it  often  re- 
quisite to 

"  Stop  a  hole,  to  keep  the  wind  away." 
The  following  is  from  Harrison's  '  Description  of 
England,'  1577:  "  In  the  fenny  countries  and 
northern  parts,  unto  this  day,  for  lack  of  wood  they 
are  enforced  to  continue  the  ancient  manner  of 
building  (houses  set  up  with  a  few  posts  and  many 
raddles),  so  in  the  open  aiid  champain  countries, 
they  are  enforced,  for  want  of  stuff,  to  use  no  studs 
at  all,  but  only  frank-posts,  and  such  principals, 
with  here  and  there  a  girding,  whereunto  they 
fasten  their  splints  or  raddles,  and  then  cast  it  all 
over  ivifh  thick  clay,  to  keep  out  the  wind,  Certes 
this  rude  kind  of  building  made  the  Spaniards  in 
Queen  Mary's  day  to  wonder,  and  say,  '  these  Eng- 
lish have  their  houses  made  of  sticks  and  dirt,  but 
they  fare  commonly  so  well  as  the  king.  '  " 


['  The  winter's  flaw.'] 

«  Scene  I.—"  Wourt  drink  up  Esil .?" 

Esil  was  formerly  a  term  in  common  use  for 
vinegar;  and  thus  some  have  thought  that  Hamlet 
here  meant,  will  you  take  a  draught  of  vinegar — of 
something  very  disagreeable.  There  is,  however, 
little  doubt  that  he  referred  to  the  river  Yssell, 
Issell,  or  Izel,  the  most  northern  branch  of  the 
Rhine,  and  that  which  is  the  nearest  to  Denmark. 
Stow  and  Drayton  are  familiar  with  the  name. 

7  Scene  I. — "  Anon,  as  patient  as  the  female 

dove,''''  &c. 
To  disclose  was  anciently  used  for,  to  hatch. 
The  "  couplets"  of  the  dove  are  first  covered  with 
yellow  down ;  and  the  patient  female  sits  brooding 
o'er  the  nest,  cherishing  them  with  her  warmth  for 
several  days  after  they  are  hatched. 


['  Anon  as  patient  as  tlie  female  dove.'] 


16G 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 


^  Scene  II. 

There'' s  a  diviniti/  that  shapes  our  ends, 

Rough-hew  them  how  we  wiliy 
Philosophy,  as  profound  as  it  is  beautiful !  says 
(he  uninitiated  reader  of  Shakspere.  But  he  that  is 
endued  with  tiie  wisdom  of  the  commentators  will 
learn,  how  easy  it  is  to  mistake  for  philosophy  and 
poetry  wliat  really  only  proceeded  from  the  very 
vulgar  recollections  of  an  ignorant  mind.  "  Dr. 
Farmer  informs  me,"  says  Steevens,  "that  these 
words  are  merehj  technical.  A  wood-man,  butcher, 
and  dealer  in  skewers,  lately  observed  to  him,  that 
his  nephew,  (an  idle  lad)  could  only  assist  him  in 
making  them;  'he  could  rough  hew  them,  but  1 
was  obliged  to   shape   their  ends,'     To  shape  the 


ends  of  wood  skewers,  i.  e.,  to  point  tiiem,  requires 
a  degree  of  skill ;  any  one  can  rough-hew  them. 
Whoever  recollects  the  profession  of  Shakspere's 
father,  will  admit  that  his  son  might  be  no  stranger 
to  such  terms.  I  liavc  frecjuently  seen  packages  of 
wool  pinn'd  up  witli  skewers."  ! ! ! 

^  Scene  II. — "  The  carriages,  sir,  ate  thehangers.^' 

The  hangers  are  that  part  of  the  girdle  or  belt 
by  which  the  sword  was  suspended.  We  find  the 
word  used  in  the  directions  for  an  installation  of 
the  Knights  of  the  Garter.  (See  Ashmole's  His- 
tory of  the  Order.)  Garter  presents  the  Lords 
Commissioners  with  "  the  hanger  and  sword," 
which  they  gird  on  the  knight. 


[Sword  Belts,  or  "  Hangers."] 


Z  2 


167 


[Ilumlet. — Sir  T.  Lawrence.] 


SUPPLEMENTARY    NOTICE. 


The  comprehension  of  this  tragedy  is  the  history  of  a  man's  own  mind.  In  some  shape  or  other, 
"  Hamlet  the  Dane"  very  early  becomes  familiar  to  almost  every  youth  of  tolerable  education. 
He  is  sometimes  presented  through  the  medimn  of  the  stage;  more  frequently  in  some  one  of  the 
manifold  editions  of  the  acted  play.  The  sublime  scenes  where  the  ghost  appears  are  known  even 
to  the  youngest  school-boy,  in  his  '  Speakers'  and  '  Readers ;'  and  so  is  the  soliloquy,  "  To  be,  or 
not  to  be."  As  we  in  early  life  become  acquainted  with  the  complete  acted  play,  we  hate  the 
King, — we  weep  for  Ophelia, — we  think  Hamlet  is  cruel  to  her, — we  are  perhaps  inclined  with 
Dr.  Johnson  to  laugh  at  Hamlet's  madness, —  ("  the  pretended  madness  of  Hamlet  causes  much 
mirth'')  we  wonder  that  Hamlet  does  not  kill  the  King  earlier, — and  we  believe,  as  Garrick  be- 
lieved, that  the  catastrophe  might  have  been  greatly  improved,  seeing  that  the  wicked  and  the 
virtuous  ought  not  to  fall  together,  as  it  wei'e  by  accident. 

A  few  years  onward,  and  we  have  become  acquainted  with  the  Hamlet  of  Shakspere, — not  the 
Hamlet  of  the  players.  The  book  is  now  the  companion  of  our  lonely  walks  ; — its  recollections 
hang  about  our  most  cherished  thoughts.  We  think  less  of  the  di'amatic  movement  of  the  play, 
than  of  the  glimpses  which  it  affords  of  the  high  and  solemn  things  that  belong  to  om*  being.  We 
see  Hamlet  habitually  subjected  to  the  spiritual  part  of  his  nature, — comnuming  with  thoughts  that 
are  not  of  this  world, — abstracted  from  the  business  of  life, — ^but  yet  exhibiting  a  most  vigorous 
intellect,  and  an  exquisite  taste.  But  there  is  that  about  him  which  we  cannot  understand.  Is  he 
essentially  "  in  madness,"  or  mad  "  only  in  craft?"  Where  is  the  line  to  be  drawn  between  his 
artificial  and  his  real  character  ?  There  is  something  altogether  indefinable  and  mysterious  in  the 
poet's  delineation  of  this  character  ; — something  wild  and  irregular  in  the  circumstances  with  which 
the  character  is  associated, — we  see  that  Hamlet  is  propelled,  rather  than  propelling.  But  why  is 
this  turn  given  to  the  delineation  ?  We  cannot  exactly  tell.  Perhaps  some  of  the  very  charm  of 
the  play  to  the  adult  mind  is  its  mystcriousness.  It  awakes  not  only  thoughts  of  the  grand  and  the 
beautiful,  but  of  the  incomprehensible.  Its  obscurity  constitutes  a  portion  of  its  sublimity.  This 
is  the  stage  in  which  most  minds  are  content  to  rest,  and,  perhaps,  advantageously  so,  with  regard 
to  the  comprehension  of  Hamlet. 
168 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

The  final  appreciation  of  the  Hamlet  of  Shakspere  belongs  to  the  development  of  the  critical 
faculty, — to  the  cultivation  of  it  by  reading  and  reflection.  Without  much  acquaintance  with  the 
thoughts  of  others,  many  men,  we  have  no  doubt,  being  earnest  and  diligent  students  of  Shakspere, 
have  arrived  at  a  tolerably  adequate  comprehension  of  his  idea  in  this  wonderfid  play.  In  passing 
through  the  stage  of  admiration  they  have  utterly  rejected  the  trash  which  the  commentators  have 
heaped  upon  it,  under  the  name  of  criticism, — the  solemn  commonplaces  of  Johnson,  the  flippant 
and  insolent  attacks  of  Steevens.  When  the  one  says,  "  the  apparition  left  the  regions  of  the  dead 
to  little  pui-})ose," — and  the  other  talks  of  the  "  absurdities"  which  deform  the  piece,  and  "  the  im- 
moral character  of  Hamlet," — the  love  for  Shakspere  tells  them,  that  remarks  such  as  these  belong 
to  the  same  class  of  prejudices  as  Voltaii'e's  '  Dionsfntosites  et  fossoyeursT  But  after  they  have 
rejected  all  that  belongs  to  criticism  without  love,  the  very  depth  of  the  reverence  of  another  school 
of  critics  may  tend  to  perplex  them.  This  is  somewhat  our  own  position.  The  quantity  alone 
that  has  been  written  in  illustration  of  Hamlet  is  embarrassing.  Goethe,  Coleridge,  Schlegel, 
Lamb,  Ilazlitt,  and  we  may  add  Mrs.  Jameson, — besides  anonymous  writers  out  of  number,  and 
some  of  the  very  highest  order  of  excellence, — have  brought  to  the  illustration  of  this  play  a  most 
valued  fund  of  judgment,  taste  and  aesthetical  knowledge.  To  condense  what  is  most  deserving  of 
remembrance  in  these  admirable  productions,  within  due  limits,  would  be  impossible.  We  must 
endeavour,  therefore,  to  feel  ourselves  in  the  condition  of  one  who  has,  however  imperfectly,  worked 
out  in  his  own  mind  a  comprehension  of  the  idea  of  Shakspere  ;  occasionally  assisting  our  devel- 
opment of  this  inadequate  comprehension,  by  a  few  exti-acts  fi-om  some  of  the  eloquent  pages  to 
which  we  have  adverted. 

The  opening  of  Hamlet  is  one  of  the  most  absoi'bing  scenes  in  the  Shaksperian  di-ama.  It  pro- 
duces its  effect  by  the  supernatural  being  bi'ought  into  the  most  immediate  contact  with  the  real. 
The  sentinels  are  prepared  for  the  appearance  of  the  ghost, — Horatio  is  incredulous, — but  they  are 
all  sm-rounded  with  an  atmosphere  of  common  life.  "  Long  live  the  King," — "  Get  thee  to  bed," — 
*"Tis  bitter  cold," — "  Not  a  mouse  stirring," — and  the  familiar  pleasantly  of  Horatio,  "a  piece  of 
him," — exhibit  to  us  minds  under  the  ordinary  state  of  human  feeling.  At  the  moment  when  the 
recollections  of  Bernardo  arise  into  that  imaginative  power  which  belongs  to  the  tale  he  is  about  to 
tell,  the  ghost  appears.  All  that  was  doubtfid  in  the  narrative  of  the  supernatural  vision — what  left 
upon  Horatio's  mind  the  impression  only  of  a  "  thing," — becomes  as  real  as  the  silence,  the  cold, 
and  the  midnight.     The  vision  is  then,  "  most  like  the  King," — 

"  Such  was  the  very  armour  he  had  on." 

The  ghost  remains  but  an  instant ;  and  we  are  again  amongst  the  realities  of  common  life, — the 
preparations  for  war — the  history  of  the  quarrel  that  caused  the  preparation.  The  vision,  in  the 
mind  of  Horatio,  is  connected  with  the  fates  of  his  "  climatures  and  countrymen."  When  the  ghost 
re-appears  there  is  still  a  tinge  of  scepticism  in  the  soldiers  : — 

"  Shall  I  strike  at  it  with  my  partisan?" 
But  their  incredulity  is  at  once  subdued ;  and  a  resolution  is  taken  by  Horatio  upon  the  conviction 
that  what  he  once  held  as  a  "  fantasy,"  is  a  dreaded  thing  of  whose  existence  there  can  be  no 

doubt ; — ■ 

"  Let  us  impart  what  we  have  seen  to-night 
.;  .  ^  Unto  young  Hamlet  :  for  upon  my  life 

''^"  S'        This  spirit,  dumb  to  us,  will  speak  to  him." 

We  have  here,  by  anticipation,  all  the  deep  and  inexplicable  consequences  of  this  vision  laid 
upon  young  Hamlet,  it  is  his  destiny — it  is  to  him  the — 

"  Prologue  to  the  omen  coming  on." 

Goethe,  in  his  '  Wilhelm  Meister,'  has  made  his  hero  describe  the  mode  in  which  he  endea- 
voured to  understand  Hamlet.  "  I  set  about  investigating  every  trace  of  Hamlet's  character,  as 
it  had  shown  itself  before  his  father's  death.  I  endeavoured  to  distinguish  what  in  it  was  inde- 
pendent of  this  mournful  event;  independent  of  the  terrible  events  that  followed;  and  what  most 
probably  the  young  man  would  have  been,  had  no  such  thing  occurred."  In  this  spii-it  he  tells 
us,  that  he  was  pleasing,  polished,  courteous,  united  the  idea  of  moral  rectitude  with  princely 
elevation,  desirous  of  praise,  pure  in  sentiment,  tasteful,  calm  in  his  temper,  artless  in  his  conduct, 
possessing  more  mirth  of  hmnour  than  of  heart.  This  is  ingenious,  but  it  appears  to  us  to  refine 
somewhat  too  much.  In  Shakspere's  dramas,  the  characters,  as  they  are  developed  by  the  inci- 
dents, expound  themselves,  and  in  the  order  in  which  the  exposition  becomes  necessary.     Wilhelm 

Traoedies. — Vol.1.     Z3  1(39 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

Meister's  preliminary  analysis  of  Hamlet's  character  stands  only  in  the  place  of  the  description  by 
which  dramatists  inferior  to  Shakspere  present  a  character  to  an  audience.  Our  poet  first  shows  us 
what  Hamlet  is  before  his  mind  is  laid  under  the  terrific  weight  and  responsibility  of  a  revelation. 
His  moral  sense  is  outraged  by  the  indecent  marriage  of  his  mother.  We  have  a  slight  intimation 
that  his  honourable  ambition  was  disappointed  in  the  election  to  the  sovereignty  of  his  uncle.  The 
sudden  death  of  his  father  had  called  forth  all  the  sensibilities  that  belonged  to  a  deeply  meditative 
natiu-e : 

" I  have  that  within  which  passeth  show." 

It  is  in  this  period  that  his  own  wounded  spirit  makes  him  look  with  a  jaundiced  eye  upon  "  all 
the  uses  of  this  world,"  and  to  indulge  a  wish,  restrained  only  by  a  sense  of  piety,  that  the 
"  unweeded  garden"  might  be  left  by  him  to  be  possessed  by  "  things  gross  and  rank  by  natiu-e." 
But  he  communes  with  himself  in  a  tone  which  bespeaks  the  habitual  refinement  of  his  thoughts ; 
and  his  words  shape  themselves  into  images  which  belong  to  the  high  and  cultivated  intellect.  The 
mode  in  which  he  receives  Horatio  shows  that  his  dejection  is  not  habitual.  It  has  been  impressed 
on  his  nature  by  a  sudden  blow; — a  father  dead, — a  mother  incestuously  married, — a  crown  snatched 
from  him.  He  welcomes  his  old  friend  with  the  warmth  and  frankness  of  the  gentleman;  but  the 
abiding  sorrow  in  a  moment  comes  over  him : — 

"  I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student." 
The  disclosure  of  Horatio's  purpose  in  his  visit  is  admirably  managed  in  its  abruptness.  Nothing, 
it  appears  to  us,  within  the  power  of  language,  can  produce  the  eifect  of  the  questions  which  Hamlet 
puts  to  Horatio;  and  his  answer  to  the  somewhat  commonplace  remark,  "  It  would  have  much 
amazed  you;" — "  very  like,  very  like,"  is  something  beyond  art;  it  looks  like  an  instinctive  percep- 
tion of  the  most  complex  mental  processes. 

Coleridge  calls  the  next  scene,  that  between  Laertes,  Ophelia,  and  Polonius,  "  one  of  Shak- 
spere's  lyric  movements;"  and  he  elegantly  adds,  "you  experience  the  sensation  of  a  pause  without 
the  sense  of  a  stop."  It  was  necessary  to  intei-pose  a  scene  between  Horatio's  narrative  and  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost  to  Hamlet,  and  the  scene  before  us  carries  out  the  dramatic  characters 
which  are  essential  to  the  plot,  without  interrupting  the  main  interest.  But  the  hour  of  Hamlet's 
trial  is  come.  The  revelation  is  to  be  made.  He  is  to  endure  an  ordeal  which  is  to  shake  his  dis- 
position, 

"  With  thoizghts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls." 

The  vision  which,  even  when  his  incredulity  has  passed  away,  seems  to  Horatio  only  a  "  thing 
majestical,"  is  to  Hamlet,  "  king,  father,  royal  Dane."  From  the  first  word  of  Horatio's  narrative 
to  this  moment  of  the  real  presence  of  the  apparition,  Hamlet  has  no  doubts.  The  excited  state  of 
his  mind  had  prepared  him  to  welcome  the  belief  that  "  there  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth 
than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy."  Beautifully  characteristic  is  his  determination  to  follow 
the  vision;  and  when  the  revelation  comes,  who  could  have  managed  it  like  Shakspere!  The 
images  are  of  this  world,  and  are  not  of  this  world.  They  belong  at  once  to  popidar  superstitions, 
and  to  the  highest  poetry.  Nothing  can  be  more  distinct  than  the  narrative  of  the  vision ;  nothing 
more  mysterious  than  the  "  eternal  blazon"  that  "  must  not  be  to  ears  of  flesh  and  blood."  How 
exquisite  are  the  last  lines  of  the  ghost ; — full  of  the  poetry  of  external  nature,  and  of  the  depth  of 
human  affections,  as  if  the  spirit  that  had  for  so  short  a  time  been  cut  off'  from  life,  to  know  the 
secrets  of  the  "  prison-house,"  still  clung  to  the  earthly  remembrance  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
tender  that  even  a  spirit  might  indulge : 

"  Tlie  glow-worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near. 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  ineffectual  fire  : 
Adieu,  adieu,  Hamlet !  remember  me." 

The  modes  in  which  Hamlet  thinks  aloud,  after  the  spirit  has  faded  away,  suggests  this  subtle 
illustration  to  Coleridge:  "  Shakspere  alone  could  have  produced  the  vow  of  Hamlet  to  make  his 
memory  a  blank  of  all  maxims  and  generalized  truths  that  "  observation  had  copied  there," — fol- 
lowed immediately  by  the  speaker  noting  down  the  generalized  fact 

'  Tliat  one  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain.'  " 

Coleridge,  of  course,  means  to  offer  this  as  a  trait  of  the  disturbance  of  Hamlet's  intellect — (not 
madness,  even  in  the  popular  sense  of  the  term, — certainly  not  madness,  physiologically  speaking, 
but  unfixedness,  derangement,  we  would  have  said,  had  not  that  word  become  a  sort  of  synonyme 
for  madness)  which  Shakspere  intended,  as  it  appears  to  us,  to  exhibit  as  the  result  of  his  super- 
170 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

natural  visitation.  Goethe  says,  "  To  me  it  is  clear  that  Shakspere  meant,  in  the  present  case,  to 
represent  the  effects  of  a  great  action  laid  upon  a  soul  unfit  for  the  perfonnance  of  it."  Coleridge, 
in  speaking  of  that  part  of  the  scene  after  the  interview  with  the  ghost,  in  which  Hamlet  assumes 
what  has  been  called  "  an  improbable  eccentricity,"  attributes  to  Hamlet  "  the  disposition  to  escape 
from  his  own  feelings  of  the  overwhelming  and  supernatural  by  a  wild  transition  to  the  ludicrous, 
a  sort  of  cunning  bravado,  bordering  on  the  flights  of  delirium."  He  adds,  "  For  you  may  perhaps 
observe  that  HamleCs  wildness  is  but  half  fake,"  It  is  imder  the  immediate  influence  of  this  "  dis- 
order in  his  sold," — this  "  shaking  and  unsettling  of  its  powers  from  their  due  sources  of  action,"* 
that  Hamlet  takes  the  instantaneous  resolution  of  feigning  himself  mad.  He  feels  that  his  mind  is 
horribly  distm-bed  with  thoughts  beyond  mortal  reach  ;  but  he  believes  that  the  habitual  powers  of 
his  intellect  can  conti-ol  this  disturbance,  and  even  render  it  an  instrument  of  his  own  safety.  The 
very  able  writer  fi-om  whose  anonymous  paper  we  have  just  quoted,  says,  "  If  there  be  any  thing 
disproportioned  in  liis  mind,  it  seems  to  be  this  only, — that  intellect  is  in  excess.  It  is  even  imgo- 
vernable,  and  too  subtle.  His  own  description  of  perfect  man,  ending  with  '  In  ajiprehension  how 
like  a  god!'  appears  to  me  consonant  with  that  character,  and  spoken  in  the  high  and  overwrought 
consciousness  of  intellect.  Much  that  requires  explanation  in  the  play  may  perhaps  be  explained 
by  this  predominance  and  consciousness  of  great  intellectual  power.  Is  it  not  possible  that  the 
instantaneous  idea  of  feigning  himself  mad  belongs  to  this  ?" 

It  is  here,  then,   that  the  complexity  of  Hamlet's  character  begins.     It  is  in  the  description  of 
Ophelia  that  he  is  first  presented  to  us,  at  some  short  period  after  the  supernatural  visitation  : — 

"  He  took  me  by  the  wrist,  and  held  me  hard ; 
Then  goes  he  to  the  length  of  all  his  arm ; 
And,  with  his  other  hand  thus  o'er  his  brow. 
He  falls  to  such  perusal  of  my  face. 
As  he  would  draw  it.     Long  staid  he  so  ; 
At  last, — a  little  shaking  of  mine  arm. 
And  thrice  his  head  thus  waving  up  and  down, — 
He  rais'd  a  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound, 
Tliat  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk. 
And  end  his  being  :  That  done,  he  lets  me  go : 
And,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder  turn'd. 
He  seem'  d  to  find  his  way  without  his  eyes ; 
For  out  o'  doors  he  went  without  their  help. 
And,  to  the  last,  bended  their  light  on  me." 

This  was  not  the  "antic  disposition  "  which  Hamlet  thought  meet  to  put  on.  It  was  not  the 
"  ecstacy  of  love,"  produced  by  Ophelia's  coldness,  according  to  Polonius.  But  it  was  the  utter- 
ance, as  far  as  it  could  be  uttered,  of  his  sense  of  the  hard  necessity  that  was  put  upon  him  to  go 
forth  to  a  mortal  struggle  with  evil  powers  and  influences  ; — to  cast  away  all  the  high  and  pleasant 
thoughts  that  belonged  to  the  ctiltivation  of  his  understanding  ; — to  tear  himself  from  all  the 
soothing  and  delicious  fancies  that  would  arise  out  of  the  growth  of  his  affection  for  that  simple 
maid  upon  whom  he  bestowed  "  a  sigh  so  piteous."  Under  the  pressiu-e  of  the  one  absorbing 
"  commandment  "  that  had  been  imposed  upon  him,  he  had  vowed  that  it  should  live  "  within 
the  volimie  of  his  brain,  vmmixed  with  baser  matter."  All  else  in  the  world  had  become  to  him 
mean  and  unimportant.  Love  was  now  to  him  a  "  trivial,  fond  record," — the  wisdom  of 
philosophy,  "  the  saws  of  books."  All  "  that  youth  and  observation  copied,"  was  to  be  forgotten  in 
that  dread  word,  "remember  me."  But  Hamlet  had  put  the  "  antic  disposition  on."  The  king 
had  seen  his  "  transformation."  The  covirtiers  talked  familiarly  of  his  "  lunacy."  The  disguise 
which  he  had  adopted  was  not  accidentally  chosen.  The  subtlety  of  his  intellect  directed  him  to 
that  tone  of  wayward  sarcasm  in  which,  while  he  appeared  to  others  to  be  merely  wandering,  the 
bitterness  of  his  soul  might  be  relieved  by  the  utterance  of  "  wild  and  hm'ling  words."  But  even 
in  this  disguise,  his  intellectual  supremacy  is  constantly  manifested.  "  He  is  far  gone,  far  gone," 
says  Polonius;  but,  "how  pregnant  his  replies  are,"  very  quickly  follows.  In  the  scene  with 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  the  natm-al  Hamlet  instantly  comes  back.  They  were  his  school- 
fellows ;  they  ought  to  have  been  his  friends.  To  them,  therefore,  he  is  the  Hamlet  they  once 
knew  ; — the  gentleman — the  scholar.  He  even  discloses  to  them  a  glimpse  of  the  deep  melancholy 
with  which  his  soul  laboured:  "O  God!  I  coidd  be  bounded  in  a  nut-shell,  and  count  myself 
a  king  of  infinite  space  ;  were  it  not  that  I  have  bad  dreams."  But  he  goes  no  ftirther ; — he  sees 
tlu'ough  their  purpose  :  "  nay,   then  I  have  an  eye  of  you."     They  were  to  be  spies  upon  him  ; 

*  Blackwood's  Miigazine,  Vol.  II.  page  504. 

171 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

and  from  tliat  moment  he  hates  them.  They  stood,  or  they  appeared  to  stand,  between  him  and 
the  great  purpose  of  his  life.  But  he  suppresses  his  feelings,  and  bursts  out  in  that  majestic  piece 
of  rhetoric  which  could  only  have  been  conceived  by  a  being  of  the  highest  intellectual  power,  in 
the  fidl  possession  of  that  power  :  "  What  a  piece  of  work  is  a  man  !  How  noble  in  reason  !  how 
infinite  in  facidties !  in  form  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable !  in  action,  how  like  an  angel ! 
in  apprehension,  how  Hke  a  god!"  The  writer  in  Blackwood  truly  says,  that  this  is  "spoken  in 
the  high  and  over-wrought  consciousness  of  intellect."  Hamlet  has  described  his  melancholy  to 
his  old  school-fellows, — the  indiiference  with  wliich  he  views  "  this  visible  world."  Here  again, 
unquestionably,  he  is  not  feigning.  He  knows  that  the  admission  of  his  melancholy  will  put  the 
spies  upon  a  false  scent.  Burton's  '  Anatomy'  was  not  published  when  Shakspere  wrote  this 
play ;  and  yet  how  consonant  is  the  following  passage  of  that  book,  with  Shakspere's  conception  of 
the  melancholy  Hamlet :  "  Albertus  Durer  paints  Melancholy  like  a  sad  woman,  leaning  on  her 
arm  with  fixed  looks,  neglected  habit,  &c.,  held  therefore  by  some,  proud,  soft,  sottish,  or  half  mad, 
as  the  Abderites  esteemed  of  Democritus  :  and  yet  of  a  deep  reach,  excellent  apprehension,  judicious, 
wise,  and  witty."  In  the  scene  mth  the  players  Hamlet  is  perfectly  at  ease,  "judicious,  wise,  and 
witty."  He  has  escaped  for  a  moment  out  of  the  dense  clouds  of  the  one  o'er-mastering  thought, 
into  the  sunny  region  of  taste  and  fancy  in  which  he  once  dwelt.  But  even  here  the  one  thought 
follows  him: — "  Dost  thou  hear  me,  old  friend?  Can  you  play  the  minder  of  Gonzago?"  Then 
comes,  "  Now  I  am  alone;"  and,  as  Chai-les  Lamb  has  beautifidly  expressed  it,  "  the  silent  medi- 
tations with  which  his  bosom  is  bursting  are  reduced  to  words,  for  the  sake  of  the  reader."  But 
in  the  midst  of  his  paroxysm,  his  intellectual  activity  predominates  :  "  About,  my  brains ;"  and  he 
escapes  from  the  thought — 

"  I  should  have  fatted  all  the  region  kites 
With  the  slave's  offal." 
into — 

"  I'll  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this:  The  play's  the  thing." 

The  indecision  of  Hamlet  is  thus  described  by  Goethe :  "  A  lovely,  pure,  noble,  and  most  moral 
nature,  without  the  strength  of  nerve  which  forms  a  hero,  sinks  beneath  a  burden  which  it  cannot 
bear,  and  must  not  cast  away."  The  writer  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  takes  another  view  of  this 
indecision,  which,  to  our  minds,  is  more  philosophic  :  "  He  sees  no  course  clear  enough  to  satisfy 
his  understanding."  Hamlet,  be  it  observed,  is  not  without  nerve.  Let  us  recollect — "  I  will  watch 
to-night,"— and, 

"  My  fate  cries  out, 
And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemeau  lion's  nerve." 

He  is  not  without  nerve.  But  his  will  is  subject  to  higher  faculties.  He  would  have  been  greater, 
had  he  been  less  great. 

We  are  scarcely  yet  cognizant  of  the  depths  of  Hamlet's  meditations.     Under  the  first  pressure 
of  his  wounded  sensibilities  we  have  heard  him  exclaim — 

"  O  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt ;" 

but  he  has  since  commimed  with  unearthly  things,  and  he  now  fearlessly  approaches  the  great 
questions  that  have  refei-ence  to  the  "  something  after  death,"  as  if  the  mystery  could  be  pierced  by 
the  eye  of  reason.  Of  the  soliloquy,  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be,"  Coleridge  remarks,  "This  speech  is  of 
absolutely  universal  interest, — and  yet  to  which  of  all  Shakspere's  characters  could  it  have  been 
appropriately  given  but  to  Hamlet?"  Bvit  we  must  mark  the  period  of  its  introduction.  It  imme- 
diately precedes  the  scene  of  Hamlet's  abrupt  behaviour  to  Ophelia.  It  does  so  in  the  original 
sketch.     She  comes  upon  him,  with 

"  My  lord,  I  have  rememlirances  of  yours," 

at  a  moment  when  his  mind  had  surrendered  itself  to  a  train  of  the  most  solemn  thought,  induced 
by  following  out  all  the  mysterious  and  fearful  circumstances  connected  with  his  own  being,  and 
the  awful  responsibilities  that  were  imposed  upon  him.  It  appears  to  us,  that  his  rude  denial  of 
having  given  Ophelia  "remembrances,"  and  his  "  Ha,  ha  !  are  you  honest?"  with  all  the  bitter 
words  that  follow,  are  meant  to  indicate  the  disturbance  which  is  produced  in  his  mind  by  the  clash- 
ing of  his  love  for  her  with  the  predominant  thought  that  now  makes  all  that  belongs  to  his  pei*- 
sonal  happiness  worthless.  His  invective  against  women  is  not  more  bitter  than  his  invective 
against  himself: — "  What  should  such  fellows  as  I  do  crawling  between  heaven  and  earth  !"  His 
bitterness  escapes  in  generalizations :  it  is  not  against  Ophelia,  but  against  her  sex,  that  he  exclaims. 
172 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

To  that  gentle  creature,  the  harshest  thing  he  says  is,  "  Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow, 
thou  shalt  not  escape  cahimny."  Coleridge  thinks  that  the  "  certain  harshness"  in  Hamlet's  man- 
ner is  produced  hy  his  perceiving  that  Ophelia  was  acting  a  part  towards  him,  and  that  they  were 
watched.  We  doubt  whether  Shakspere  intended  Hamlet  to  be  here  feigning.  The  passionate 
words  are  merely  the  exponents  of  the  contest  within, — tlie  contest  between  his  love  and  the  pur- 
pose which  appeared  to  him  to  exclude  all  other  thoughts.  There  was  a  real  disturbance  of  his 
soul,  which  could  only  recover  its  balance  by  such  an  outbreak.  The  character  of  the  disturbance 
is  indicated  by  the  contradiction  of  "  I  did  love  you  once,"  and  "  I  loved  you  not;"  and,  perhaps, 
as  Lamb  expresses  it,  these  "  tokens  of  an  unhinged  mind"  are  mixed  "  with  a  profound  artifice  of 
love,  to  alienate  Ophelia  by  affected  discourtesies,  so  to  prepare  her  mind  for  the  breaking  off  of  that 
loving  intercourse,  which  can  no  longer  find  a  place  amidst  business  so  serious  as  that  which  he  has 
to  do."'  At  any  rate,  the  gentle  and  tender  Ophelia  is  not  outraged.  Her  pity  only  is  excited; 
and  if  the  apparent  harshness  of  Hamlet  requires  a  proper  appreciation  of  his  character  to  reconcile 
it  with  our  admiration  of  him,  Shakspere  has  at  this  moment  most  adroitly  presented  to  us  that  de- 
scription of  him  which  Goethe  anticipated — 

"  The  courtier's,  solilier's,  scholar's,  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
Tlie  expectancy  and  rose  of  tlie  fair  state." 

Hamlet  recovers  a  temporary  tranquillity.  He  has  something  to  do ;  and  that  something  is  con- 
nected with  his  great  business.  It  is  more  agreeable  that  it  postpones  that  one  duty,  while  it  seems 
to  lead  onward  to  it.  He  has  to  prepare  the  players  to  speak  his  speech.  Those  who  look  upon 
the  surface  only  may  think  these  directions  uncharacteristic  of  Hamlet;  but  nothing  can  really  be 
more  appropriate  than  that  these  rules  of  art,  so  just,  so  imiversal,  and  so  complete,  should  be  put 
by  Shakspere  into  the  mouth  of  him  who  had  pre-eminently  "  the  scholar  s  tongue."  Hamlet 
revels  in  this  lesson ;  and  it  has  produced  a  calm  in  his  spirits,  which  is  displayed  in  that  affectionate 
address  to  Horatio,  in  which  he  appears  to  repose  upon  his  friend  as  one 

"  Wliose  blood  and  judgment  are  so  well  co-mingled," — 

to  be,  as  it  were,  a  prop  to  his  own  "  weakness  and  melancholy."  Be  it  observed  that  this  is  the 
first  indication  we  have  had  that  he  has  admitted  Horatio  into  his  confidence : — 

"  There  is  a  play  to-night  before  the  king: 
One  scene  of  it  comes  near  the  circumstance 
Which  I  have  told  thee  of  my  father's  death." 

The  satisfaction  he  takes  in  the  device  of  the  "  one  scene" — the  hopes  which  he  has  that  his  doubts 
may  be  resolved — lend  a  real  elevation  to  his  spirits,  which  may  pass  for  his  feigned  "  madness." 
He  utters  whatever  comes  upperaiost;  and  the  freedoms  which  he  takes  with  Ophelia,  while  they 
are  equally  remote  from  bitterness  or  harshness,  are  such  as  in  Shakspere's  age  would  not  offend 
pure  ears.  The  mixture  in  his  wild  speeches  of  fun  and  pathos,  is  nevertheless  most  touching. 
"  What  should  a  man  do  but  be  merry,"  comes  from  the  profoimdest  depths  of  a  wormded  spirit. 
The  test  is  applied  ;  the  King  is  "  frighted  with  false  fire," — his  "  occulted  guilt"  has  vmkennelled 
itself.  The  elation  of  Hamlet's  mind  is  at  its  height.  His  contempt  of  the  King  is  openly  pro- 
nounced to  his  creatures ; — Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  quail  before  his  biting  sarcasm ; — Polo- 
nius  is  his  butt.  All  this  is,  as  he  thinks,  the  coruscations  of  the  cloud  before  the  deadly  flash. 
"  Now  could  I  drink  hot  blood,"  is  the  feeling  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  all.  Then  comes  the  scene 
in  which  the  King  prays,  and  Hamlet  postpones  his  revenge,  with  an  excuse  almost  too  dreadful  to 
belong  to  human  motives.  They  were  not  his  motives.  Coleridge  discriminates  between  "  impe- 
tuous, horror-striking  fiendishness,"  and  "  the  marks  of  reluctance  and  procrastination ;"  and  it  is 
sufficient  to  note  this  distinction,  without  entering  into  any  refutation  of  opinions  which  show  that 
it  is  easier  to  write  mouthingly  or  pertly,  as  some  have  done,  than  to  understand  Shakspere.  It  is 
in  the  scene  with  the  Queen  that  Hamlet  vindicates  his  own  sanity — 

"  It  is  not  madness 

Tliat  I  have  uttered :  bring  me  to  the  test. 

And  I  the  matter  will  re-word ;  which  madness 

Would  gambol  from." 

This  is  *  Shakspere's  Test  of  Insanity;' — the  title  of  an  Essay  by  Sir  H.  Halford,  in  which  he  illus- 
trates from  his  experience  the  accuracy  of  our  great  poet's  delineations  of  the  phenomena  of  mental 
disorder.  Our  readers  will  find  a  very  able  article  on  this  Essay  in  the  '  Quarterly  Review,'  Vol. 
49,  p.  181. 

Hamlet  abstained  from  killing  the  king  when  he  was  "  praying."     This  was  a  part  of  his  weak- 
ness.   But  he  did  not  abandon  his  purpose.    The  forced  devotion  of  the  guilty  man, — the  "  physic, 
as  Hamlet  calls  it,  did  but  prolong  his  "  sickly  days."     Polonius  falls  by  an  accident,  instead  of  his 

173 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

"  betters."  The  "  wretched,  rash,  intiiiding  fool,"  was  sacrificed  to  a  sudden  impulse,  which  stood 
in  the  place  of  a  determinate  exercise  of  the  will.  Hamlet  scai-cely  regrets  the  accident: — "take 
thy  fortune."  His  mind  is  eased  by  his  colloquy  with  his  mother.  The  vision  again  appears  to 
whet  his  "  almost  blunted  purpose;"  but  nothing  is  done.     His  intellect  is  again  at  its  subtleties  : — 

"  There's  letters  seal'd :  and  my  two  school-fellows, — 
Wliom  I  will  trust,  as  I  will  adders  fang'd, — 
They  bear  the  mandate ;  they  must  sweep  my  way. 
And  marshal  me  to  knavery  :  Let  it  work  ; 
For  'tis  the  sport,  to  have  the  engineer 
Hoist  with  his  own  petar  :  and  't  shall  go  hard. 
But  I  will  delve  one  yard  below  their  mines. 
And  blow  them  at  the  moon." 

He  casts  himself  like  a  feather  upon  the  great  wave  of  fate; — he  embraces  the  events  that  mar- 
shalled him  "to  knavery."  Dangerous  as  they  be,  they  are  better  than  doubt.  He  believes  that 
he  pierces  through  the  darkness  of  his  fate: — "  I  see  a  cherub,  that  sees  him."  He  leaves  for  Eng- 
land ;  not  forgetting  him  whose 

"  Form  and  cause  conjoin' d,  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable ;" 

but  still  meditating  instead  of  acting.  It  would  be  a  curious  problem  to  be  solved,  but  it  will  never 
be  solved,  whether  Shakspere  himself  obliterated  the  scene  which  only  appears  in  the  second  quarto, 
in  which  the  workings  of  Hamlet's  mind  at  this  juncture  are  so  distinctly  revealed  to  us.  That  he 
meant  the  character  to  be  mysterious,  though  not  inexplicable,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  Does  it  become 
too  plain  when  Hamlet's  meeting  with  the  Norwegian  captain  leads  him  into  a  train  of  thought,  at 
first  made  up  of  generalizations,  but  in  the  end  most  conclusive  as  to  the  causes  of  his  indecision  1 — 

"  Now,  whether  it  be 
Bestial  oblivion,  or  some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event — 
(A  thought,  which  quarter'd,  hath  but  one  part  wisdom, 
And  ever,  three  parts  coward) — I  do  not  know 
Why  yet  I  live  to  say.  This  thing's  to  do; 
Sith  I  have  cause,  and  will,  and  strength,  and  means. 
To  do't." 

It  was  not  "bestial  oblivion." — O  no.  The  eternal  presence  of  the  thought — "  this  thing's  to  do," 
made  him  incapable  of  doing  it.  It  was  the  "  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event"  that  destroyed 
his  will.  It  was  in  the  same  spirit  that  his  will  had  been  "  puzzled"  by  the  "  dread  of  something 
after  death," — that  his  conscience — (consciousness) — "  sicklied  o'er"  his  "  native  hue  of  resolution." 
The  "  delicate  and  tender  prince"  exposed  what  was  mortal  and  unsure  to  fortime,  death  and  dan- 
ger, even  for  an  egg-shell.  Twenty  thousand  men,  for  a  fantasy  and  trick  of  fame,  went  to  their 
graves  like  beds.  But  then,  the  men  and  their  leader  "  made  mouths  at  the  invisible  event."  The 
"large  discourse"  of  Hamlet,  "looking  before  and  after,"  absorbed  the  tangible  and  present.  In 
actions  that  appear  indirectly  to  advance  the  execution  of  the  great  "  commandment"  that  was  laid 
upon  him,  he  has  decision  and  alacrity  enough.  His  relation  to  Horatio  (we  are  somewhat  antici- 
pating) of  his  successfid  device  against  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  would  appear  to  come  fi-om 
a  man  who  is  all  will.  His  intellectual  activity  revels  in  the  telhng  of  the  story.  Coleridge  has 
admirably  pointed  out  in  '  The  Friend,'  how  "  the  circumstances  of  time  and  place  are  all  stated 
with  equal  compression  and  rapidity;"  but  still,  with  the  relator's  general  tendency  to  generalise. 
The  event  has  happened,  and  Hamlet  does  not  think  too  precisely  of  its  consequences.  The  issue 
will  be  shortly  known. 

"  It  will  be  short — the  interim  is  mine, 
And  a  man's  life  no  more  than  to  say — one." 

This  looks  like  decision,  growing  out  of  the  narrative  of  the  events  in  which  Hamlet  had  exhibited 
his  decision.  But  even  in  his  own  accovmt,  the  beginning  of  this  action  was  his  "  indiscretion," 
proceeding  from  sudden  and  indefinable  impulses  : — 

"  Sir,  in  my  heart  there  was  a  kind  of  fighting 
That  would  not  let  me  sleep." 

Wondei-fully,  indeed,  has  Shakspere  managed  to  follow  the  old  history — "  How  Fengon  devised  to 
send  Hamlet  to  the  king  of  England,  with  secret  letters  to  have  him  put  to  death,  and  how 
Hamlet  when  his  companions  slept,  read  the  letters,  and  instead  of  them,  coimterfeited  others, 
willing  the  king  of  England  to  put  the  two  messengers  to  death," — without  destroying  the  imity  of 
his  own  conception  of  Hamlet. 

Mrs.  Jameson,  in   her  delightfid  'Characteristics  of  Women,'  has  sketched  the   character  of 
Ophelia  with  all  a  woman's  truth  and  tenderness.     One  passage  only  can  we  venture  to  take,  for  it 
174 


HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK. 

is  an  image  that  to  our  minds  is  far  better  than  many  words :  "  Once  at  Murano,  I  saw  a  dove 
caught  in  a  tempest ;  perhaps  it  was  young,  and  either  lacked  strengtli  of  wing  to  reach  its  home, 
or  the  instinct  which  teaches  to  shun  the  brooding  storm  ;  but  so  it  was— and  I  watched  it,  pitying, 
as  it  flitted,  poor  bird !  hither  and  tliither,  with  its  silver  pinions  shining  against  the  black 
thunder-cloud,  till,  after  a  few  giddy  whirls,  it  fell  blinded,  affrighted,  and  bewildered,  into  the 
tui-bid  wave  beneath,  and  was  swallowed  up  for  ever.  It  reminded  me  then  of  the  fate  of  Ophelia ; 
and  now,  when  I  think  of  her,  I  see  again  before  me  that  poor  dove,  beating  with  weary  wing, 
bewildered  amid  the  storm."  And  why  is  it,  when  we  think  upon  the  fate  of  the  poor  storm-stricken 
Ophelia,  that  we  never  repi-oach  Hamlet?  We  are  certain  that  it  was  no  "trifling  of  his  favour" 
that  broke  her  heart.  We  are  assured  that  his  seeming  harshness  did  not  sink  deep  into  her 
spirit.  We  believe  that  he  loved  her  more  than  "  forty  thousand  brothers" — though  a  very 
ingenious  question  has  been  raised  upon  that  point.  And  yet  she  certainly  perished  through 
Hamlet  and  his  actions.  But  we  blame  him  not ;  for  her  destiny  was  involved  in  his.  We  cannot 
avoid  transcribing  a  passage  from  the  article  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  which  we  have  already 
mentioned  :  "  Soon  as  we  connect  her  destiny  with  Hamlet,  we  know  that  darkness  is  to  overshadow 
her,  and  that  sadness  and  soiTow  will  step  in  between  her  and  the  ghost-haimted  avenger  of  his 
fatlier's  murder.  Soon  as  oin-  pity  is  excited  for  her,  it  continues  gradually  to  deepen ;  and  when 
she  appears  in  her  madness,  we  are  not  more  prepared  to  weep  over  all  its  most  pathetic 
movements,  than  we  afterwards  are  to  hear  of  her  death.  Perhaps  the  description  of  that  catastrophe 
by  the  queen  is  poetical  rather  than  dramatic ;  but  its  exquisite  beauty  prevails,  and  Opheha, 
dying  and  dead,  is  still  the  same  Ophelia  that  first  won  our  love.  Perhaps  the  very  forgetfidness  of 
her,  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  play,  leaves  the  sold  at  fidl  liberty  to  dream  of  the  departed. 
She  has  passed  away  from  the  earth  like  a  beautifid  air — a  delightful  di-eam.  There  woidd  have 
been  no  place  for  her  in  the  agitation  and  tempest  of  the  final  catastrophe." 

Gan-ick  omitted  the  grave-diggers.  He  had  the  terror  of  Voltaire  before  his  eyes.  The  English 
audience  compelled  their  restoration.  Was  it  that  "the  groimdlings"  coidd  not  endure  the  loss  of 
the  ten  waistcoats  which  the  clown  had  divested  himself  of,  time  out  of  mind  ? — or,  was  there  in  this 
scene  something  that  brought  Hamlet  home  to  the  humblest,  in  the  large  reach  of  his  imiversal 
philosophy  ?  M.  Villemain,  in  his  Essay  on  Shakspere,  appears  to  us  utterly  to  have  mistaken  this 
scene  :*  "  Strike  not  out  from  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  as  Garrick  had  attempted  to  do,  the  labours 
and  the  pleasantries  of  the  grave-diggers.     Be  present  at  this  terrible  buffoonery ;  and  you  will 

behold  terror  and  gaiety  rapidly  moving  an  immense   audience Youth  and  beauty 

contemplate  with  insatiable  curiosity  images  of  decay,  and  minute  details  of  death ;  and  then  the 
uncouth  pleasantries  which  are  blended  with  the  action  of  the  chief  personages,  seem  from  time  to 
time  to  relieve  the  spectators  from  the  weight  which  oppresses  them,  and  shouts  of  laughter  burst  from 
every  seat.  Attentive  to  this  spectacle,  the  coldest  countenances  alternately  manifest  their  gloom  or 
their  gaiety ;  and  even  the  statesman  smiles  at  the  sarcasm  of  the  grave-digger  who  can  distinguish 
between  the  skidl  of  a  corn-tier  and  a  buffoon."  This  may  be  the  Hamlet  of  the  theatre;  but 
M.  Villemain  shoidd  have  looked  at  the  Hamlet  of  the  closet.  The  conversation  of  the  clowns 
before  Hamlet  comes  upon  the  scene  is  indeed  pleasantry  intermixed  with  sarcasm ;  but  the  moment 
that  Hamlet  opens  his  lips,  the  meditative  richness  of  his  mind  is  poured  out  upon  us,  and  he 
grapples  with  the  most  familiar  and  yet  the  deepest  thoughts  of  human  nature,  in  a  style  that  is 
sublime  from  its  very  obviousness  and  simplicity.  Where  is  the  terror,  unless  it  be  terrible  to  think 
of  "  the  house  appointed  for  all  living  ;"  and  what  is  to  provoke  the  long  peals  of  laughter,  where 
the  grotesque  is  altogether  subordinate  to  the  solemn  and  the  philosophical?  It  is  the  entire 
absorption  of  the  fellow  who  "has  no  feeling  of  his  business,"  by  him  of  "daintier  sense,"  who 
considers  it  "too  curiously,"  that  makes  this  scene  so  impressive  to  the  reader. 

Of  Hamlet's  violence  at  the  grave  of  Ophelia  we  think  with  the  critic  on  Sir  Henry  Halford's 
Essay,  that  it  was  a  real  aberration,  and  not  a  simulated  frenzy.  His  apparently  cold  expression, 
"  What  the  fair  Ophelia !"  appears  to  us  to  have  been  an  effort  of  restraint,  which  for  the  moment 
overmastered  his  reason.  In  the  interval  between  this  "  towering  passion"  and  the  final  catas- 
trophe, Hamlet  is  thoroughly  himself— meditative  to  excess  with  Horatio— most  acute,  playfid, 
but  altogether  gentlemanly,  in  the  scene  with  the  frivolous  coxu-tier.  But  observe  that  he  forms 
no  plans.  He  knows  the  danger  which  surroimds  him;  and  he  still  feels  with  regard  to  the 
usurper  as  he  always  felt : 

*  We  tr:insUite  from  the  last  edition  of  his  Essiiy.     Ruis    1839. 

175 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

"  is't  not  perfect  conscience, 
To  (lUit  him  with  this  arm  ?" 

But  his  will  is  still  essentially  powerless ;  and  now  he  yields  to  the  sense  of  predestination  :  "  If  it 
be  now,  'tis  not  to  come  ;  if  it  be  not  to  come,  it  will  be  now ;  if  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come  : 
the  readiness  is  all."  The  catastrophe  is  perfectly  in  accordance  with  this  prostration  of  Hamlet's 
mind.  It  is  the  result  of  an  accident,  produced  we  know  not  how.  Some  one  has  suggested  a 
polite  ceremonial  on  the  part  of  Hamlet,  by  which  the  foils  might  be  exchanged  with  perfect  con- 
sistency. We  would  rather  not  know  how  they  were  exchanged.  "  The  catastrophe,"  says 
Johnson,  "  is  not  very  happily  produced;  the  exchange  of  weapons  is  rather  an  expedient  of 
necessity  than  a  stroke  of  art.  A  scheme  might  easily  be  formed  to  kill  Hamlet  with  the  dagger, 
and  Laertes  with  the  bowl."  No  doubt.  A  tragedy  terminated  by  chance  appears  to  be  a  capital 
thing  for  the  rule-and-line  men  to  lay  hold  of.  But  they  forget  the  poet's  pm-pose.  Had  Hamlet 
been  otherwise,  his  will  would  have  been  the  predominant  agent  in  the  catastrophe.  The  empire 
of  chance  would  have  been  over-ruled;  the  guilty  would  have  been  punished;  the  innocent 
perhaps  would  have  been  spared.  Have  we  lost  any  thing  ?  Then  we  should  not  have  had  the 
Hamlet  who  is  "  the  darling  of  every  comitry  in  which  the  literature  of  England  has  been  fos- 
tered;"* then  we  shovUd  not  have  had  the  Hamlet  who  is  "a  concentration  of  all  the  interests 
that  belong  to  humanity ;  in  whom  there  is  a  more  intense  conception  of  individual  human  life 
than  perhaps  in  any  other  human  composition ;  that  is,  a  being  with  springs  of  thought,  and 
feeling,  and  action,  deeper  than  we  can  search  ;"t  then  we  shoidd  not  have  had  the  Hamlet,  of 
whom  it  has  been  said,  "  Hamlet  is  a  name ;  his  speeches  and  sayings  but  the  idle  coinage  of  the 
poet's  brain.  What  then,  are  they  not  real  ?  They  are  as  real  as  oiu*  own  thoughts.  Their 
reality  is  in  the  reader's  mind.     It  is  tve  who  are  Hamlet." J 

*  Coleridge.  +  Blackwood,  Vol.  II.  %  Hazlitt. 


['  There  is  a  willow  grows  aslant  a  brook.'] 


176 


[Stonehenge.] 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Cymbeline. 

"  The  Tragedie  of  Cymbeliue"  was  first  printed  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623.  The  play  is  very 
-  carefully  divided  into  acts  and  scenes— an  arrangement  which  is  sometimes  wanting  in  other  plays 
of  this  edition.  Printed  as  Cymbeline  must  have  been  from  a  manuscript,  the  text,  although  some- 
times difficult,  presents  few  examples  of  absolute  error.  Of  course  some  palpable  errors  do  occur, 
and  these  have  been  properly  corrected  by  the  modern  editors;  but  they  have  in  this,  as  in  every 
other  instance,  carried  their  vocation  too  far.  We,  upon  the  principle  which  we  have  invariably 
followed,  have  implicitly  adhered  to  the  text,  except  in  those  instances  of  manifest  corruption  which 
can  be  distinctly  referred  to  the  class  of  typographical  errors.  The  Cymbeline  of  the  first  edition 
is,  in  one  respect,  printed  with  very  remarkable  care ;  it  is  full  of  such  contractions  as  the  fol- 
lowing : — 

"  His  flaug)iler,  .ind  the  heire  of's  kingdome,  whom." 
"It  cannot  be  i'tli'eye :  for  apes  and  monkeys." 
"  Contemne  with  mowes  the  other.     Nor  i' tKjudgement ." 
"  Tu'  th'  truncke  agaiue,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it." 

We  find  this  principle  occasionally  followed  in  some  other  of  the  plays  ;  but  in  this  it  is  invariably 
regarded. 

In  placing  this  drama  (it  can  scarcely  be  called  tragedy,  although  we  must  adhere  to  the  original 
classification)  immediately  after  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  Hamlet,  we  are  called  upon  to  state  the 
grounds  iipon  which  we  classify  it  amongst  the  comparatively  early  plays.  Malone  has  assigned  it 
to  1609,  Chalmers  to  1606,  and  Drake  to  1605.  The  external  evidence  adduced  by  Malone  for 
this  opinion  appears  to  us  not  only  extremely  weak,  but  to  be  conceived  in  the  very  lowest  spmt 
of  the  compi-ehension  of  Shakspere.  He  assumes  that  it  was  written  after  Lear  and  Macbeth,  for 
the  following  reasons  : — The  character  of  Edgar  in  Lear  is  formed  on  that  of  Leonatus  in  Sydney's 
'  Arcadia.'     "  Shakspeare  having  occasion  to  turn  to  that  book  while  he  was  writing  King  Lear, 

Tk.^gedie>.— Vol.  I.         2X2  ^'^ 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

tlie  name  of  Leonatus  adhered  to  liis  memory,  and  he  has  made  it  the  name  of  one  of  the  charac- 
ters in  Cymbeline."  Having  occasion  to  turn  to  that  book! — a  mode  of  expression  which  might 
equally  apply  to  a  tailor  having  occasion  for  a  piece  of  buckram.  Sydney's  '  Arcadia'  was  essen- 
tially ihe  hook  of  Shakspere's  age — more  popular,  perhaps,  than  the  '  Fairy  Queen,'  as  profoundly 
admired  by  the  highest  order  of  spirits,  as  often  quoted,  as  often  present  to  their  thoughts.  And 
yet  the  very  highest  spirit  of  that  age,  thoroughly  imbued  as  he  must  have  been  with  all  the  poetical 
literature  of  his  own  day  and  his  own  country  (we  pass  by  the  question  of  his  further  knowledge), 
IS  represented  only  to  know  the  great  work  of  his  great  contemporary  as  a  little  boy  in  a  grammar- 
school  knows  what  is  called  a  crib-book.     But  this  is  not  all. 

The  story  of  Lear,  according  to  Malone,  lies  near  to  that  of  Cymbeline  in  Holinshed's  Chronicle, 
and  some  accovmt  of  Duncan  and  Macbeth  is  given  incidentally  in  a  subsequent  page  ;  and  so  this 
very  humble  reader,  who  never  looked  into  a  book  but  when  he  wanted  to  get  something  out  of 
it,  composes  Lear,  Macbeth,  and  Cymbeline  (two  of  them  luiquestionably  the  greatest  monuments 
of  human  genius)  at  one  and  the  same  time,  because,  forsooth,  he  happened  about  the  same  time 
to  turn  to  Sydney's  Arcadia  and  Holinshed's  Chronicle.  But  this  sort  of  reasoning  does  not  even 
stop  here.  Cymbeline  is  not  only  produced  after  Lear  and  Macbeth  for  these  causes,  but  about  the 
same  period  as  the  Roman  plays.  In  this  play  mention  is  made  of  Caesar's  ambition  and  Cleopatra 
sailing  on  the  Cydnus;  ergo,  says  Malone,  "  I  think  it  probable  that  about  this  time  Shakspere  pe- 
rused the  lives  of  Caesar,  Brutus,  and  Mark  Antony."  Perused  the  lives  !  But  we  really  have  not 
jiatience  to  waste  another  word  upon  this  insolence,  so  degrading  (for  it  is  nothing  less)  to  the 
country  and  the  age  which  produced  it.  George  Chalmers  fixes  the  date  in  1606,  because  he  con- 
ceives that  Cloten's  speech,  in  the  second  act, — "  a  Jack-a-napes  must  take  me  up  for  swear- 
ing,"— alludes  to  the  statute  of  1606,  for  restraining  the  use  of  profane  expressions  on  the  stage. 
There  is  nothing  to  which  we  object  in  this  ingenious  suggestion,  but  it  is  not  conclusive  as  to  the 
date  of  Cymbeline  :  nor  indeed  can  any  such  isolated  passage  be  conclusive  ;  for  we  know  from  the 
quartos  that  passing  allusions  were  constantly  inserted  after  the  first  production  of  Shakspere's 
plays.     Drake  assigns  no  reason  for  the  date  which  he  gives  of  1605. 

In  the  Introductory  Notice  to  Richard  II.  we  have  given  an  extract  from  "  a  book  of  pl.iys  and 
notes  thereof,  for  common  policy"  kept  by  Dr.  Symon  Forman,  in  1610  and  1611.  These  notes, 
which  were  discovered  and  first  printed  by  Mr.  Collier,  contain  not  only  an  account  of  some  play 
of  Richard  II.,  at  which  the  writer  was  present,  but  distinctly  give  the  plots  of  Shakspere's  Win- 
ter's Tale,  Macbeth,  and  Cymbeline.  We  shall  take  the  liberty  of  reprinting  from  Mr.  Collier's 
'  New  Particidars  '  Forman's  account  of  the  plot  of  Cymbeline  : — 

"  Remember,  also,  the  story  of  Cymbeline,  King  of  England,  in  Lucius'  time:  how  Lucius  came  from  Octavius  Caesar  for 
tribute,  and,  being  denied,  after  sent  Lucius  with  a  great  army  of  soldiers,  who  landed  at  Milford  Haven,  and  after  were  van- 
quished by  Cymbeline,  and  Lucius  taken  prisoner,  and  all  by  means  of  three  outlaws,  of  the  which  two  of  them  were  the  sons 
of  Cymbeline,  stolon  from  him  when  they  were  but  two  years  old,  by  an  old  man  whom  Cymbeline  had  banished;  and  he 
kept  them  as  his  own  sons  twenty  years  with  him  in  a  cave.  And  how  otie  of  them  slew  Cloten,  that  was  the  Queen's  son, 
going  to  Milford  Haven  to  seek  the  love  of  Imogen  the  King's  daughter,  whom  he  had  banished  also  for  loving  his  daughter. 

"  And  how  the  Italian  that  came  from  her  love  conveyed  himself  into  a  chest,  and  said  it  was  a  chest  of  plate  sent  from  her 
love  and  others  to  be  presented  to  the  King.  And  in  the  deepest  of  the  night,  she  being  asleep,  he  opened  the  chest  and  came 
fuiili  of  it,  and  viewed  her  in  her  bed,  and  the  marks  other  body,  and  took  away  her  bracelet,  and  after  accused  her  of  adultery 
to  her  love,  &e.  And,  in  the  end,  how  he  came  witli  tlie  Romans  into  England,  and  was  taken  prisoner,  and  after  revealed  to 
Imogen,  who  had  turned  herself  into  man's  apparel,  and  fled  to  meet  her  love  at  Milford  Haven ;  and  chanced  to  fall  on  the 
cave  in  the  woods  where  her  two  brothers  were  :  and  how  by  eating  a  sleeping  dram  tliey  thought  she  had  been  dead,  and  laid 
her  in  the  woods,  and  the  body  of  Cloten  by  her,  in  her  love's  apparel  that  he  left  behind  him,  and  how  she  was  found  by 
Lucius,  &c." 

"  'This,"  Mr.  Collier  adds,  "  is  cvu-ious;  principally  because  it  gives  the  impression  of  the  plot 
upon  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  at  about  the  time  when  the  play  was  first  produced.''^  We  can 
scarcely  yield  our  implicit  assent  to  this.  Forman's  note-book  is  evidence  that  the  play  existed  in 
1610  or  1611 ;  but  it  is  not  evidence  that  it  was  first  produced  in  1610  or  1611.  Mr.  Collier,  in 
his  '  Annals  of  the  Stage,'  gives  us  the  following  entry  from  the  books  of  Sir  Henry  Herbert 
Master  of  the  Revels : — "  On  Wednesday  night  the  first  of  January,  1633,  Cymbeline  was  acted 
at  Court  by  the  King's  players.  Well  liked  by  the  King."  Here  is  a  proof  that  for  more  than  twenty 
years  after  Forman  saw  it  Cymbeline  was  still  acted,  and  still  popular.  By  parity  of  reasoning  it 
might  have  been  acted,  and  might  have  been  popular,  before  Forman  saw  it. 

In  the  absence,  then,  of  all  specific  information  as  to  the  chronology  of  Cymbeline,  we  must 
180 


CYMBELINE. 

be  guided  by  what  is  after  all  the  safest  guide  in  sucli  cases  —  internal  evidence.  It  un- 
questionably belongs,  in  its  present  form,  to  the  luxuriant  period  of  our  poet's  genius;  it 
possesses  the  same  characteristics  as  The  Winter's  Tale,  and,  we  may  add,  as  The  Tempest. 
The  Rev.  Joseph  Hunter,  in  his  recently-published  volume,  '  A  Disquisition  on  the  Scene,  Origin, 
Date,  &-C.,  of  Shakespeare's  Tempest,'  has  very  successfully  justified  his  assignment  of  The  Tempest 
to  the  IGth  century  by  this  species  of  internal  evidence.  He  says,  "  As  Shakespeare  grew  older 
his  muse  grew  severer  ; "  and,  again,  "  I  would  invite  your  attention  in  the  next  place  to  what  has 
not,  I  think,  been  observed  before,  that  a  great  change  seems  to  have  come  over  the  mind  of 
Shakespeare  soon  after  his  fortieth  year,  respecting  the  kind  of  stories  which  were  best  adapted  to 
the  purposes  of  the  drama,  or  on  which  he  thought  it  most  befitting  him  to  direct  his  own  genius." 
But  we  beg  to  point  out  that  this  has  been  observed  before,  and  by  one  whose  observation  is  of  the 
highest  importance  to  every  student  of  Shakspere.  Mr.  Hunter  places  at  "  the  later  period  of  the 
poet's  life,"  when  "  his  muse  grew  severer,"  Julius  Caesar,  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  Coriolanus, 
Timon,  Troilus  and  Cressida.  Coleridge,  in  his  masterly  classification  of  1819,*  gives  as  Shak- 
spere's  last  epoch,  "  when  the  energies  of  intellect  in  the  cycle  of  genius  were,  though  in  a  rich 
and  more  potentiated  form,  becoming  predominant  over  passion  and  creative  self-manifestation," 
Measure  for  Measure,  Timon,  Coriolanus,  Julius  Cassai-,  Anthony  and  Cleopatra,  Troilus  and 
Cressida.  The  fourfh  epoch  of  Coleridge — the  previoiis  period,  giving  "  all  the  graces  and  facilities 
of  a  genius  in  full  possession  and  exercise  of  power" — includes  The  Tempest,  As  You  like  it,  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  Twelfth  Night;  "and  finally,  at  its  very  point  of  culmination,"  Lear,  Hamlet, 
Macbeth,  Othello.  How  safely  may  we  trust  to  the  penetration  of  high  genius !  When  the 
commentators,  with  one  accord,  declared  that  Twelfth  Night  was  Shakspere's  last  play,  Coleridge 
boldly  placed  it  in  the  middle  period  of  his  life ;  and,  some  years  after,  Mr.  Collier  proves  that  it 
was  acted  in  1602.  In  the  same  period  Coleridge  places  The  Tempest;  and  subsequently  Mr.  Hun- 
ter brings  forward  several  curious  facts  to  render  it  highly  probable  that  it  was  produced  in  1596. 
We  regret  that  Mr.  Hunter  did  not  do  justice  to  the  a  priori  sagacity  of  our  great  philosophical 
critic,  to  whom  unquestionably  belongs  the  "  discovery"  of  the  date  of  the  Tempest.f 

Coleridge,  in  the  classification  of  1819,  places  Cymbeline,  as  he  supposes  it  to  have  been  ori- 
ginally produced,  in  the  first  epoch,  to  which  he  assigns  Pericles  :  "In  the  same  epoch  I  place 
The  Winter's  Tale  and  Cymbeline,  differing  from  the  Pericles  by  the  entire  rifaccimento  of  it,  when 
Shakspere's  celebrity  as  poet,  and  his  interest  no  less  than  his  influence  as  manager,  enabled  him  to 
-bring  forward  the  laid-by  labours  of  his  youth."  Tieck,  whilst  he  considers  it "  the  last  work  of  the 
great  poet,  which  may  have  been  written  about  1614  or  1615,"  adds,  "it  is  also  not  impossible  that 
this  varied- woven  romantic  history  had  inspired  the  poet  in  his  youth  to  attempt  it  for  the  stage." 
Tieck  assigns  no  reason  for  believing  that  the  play  as  we  have  received  it  is  of  so  late  a  date  as  1614 
or  1615.  We  presume  to  think  that  he  is  wrong.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that,  as  it  stands,  it  is  fuller  of  elliptical  constniction,  proceeding  from  the  over-teeming  thought, 
than  any  of  the  early  plays.  Malone  has  observed,  and  we  think  very  justly  (for  in  matters  in 
which  he  was  not  tainted  by  the  influences  of  his  age  his  opinions  are  to  be  respected),  that  its  ver- 
sification resembles  that  of  The  Winter's  Tale  and  The  Tempest.  It  will  probably  some  day  be 
established  to  demonstration  that  The  Winter's  Tale  and  The  Tempest  belong  to  tlie  Shakspere  of 
six-and-thirty,  rather  than  to  the  Shakspere  of  six-and-forty.  To  whatever  age  they  shall  be  ulti- 
mately assigned  we  have  no  doubt  that  on  every  account — from  the  nature  of  the  fable,  as  well  as 
the  cast  of  tliought,  and  the  construction  of  the  language — Cymbeline  will  go  with  them.  But,  how- 
ever this  may  be,  we  heartily  join  in  the  belief,  so  distinctly  expressed  by  two  such  master-minds  as 

*  Literary  Remains,  vol.  ii.,  page  89. 

+  Mr.  Huuter  affixes  to  his  book  a  motto  from  Whiter  :  "  As  these  things  have  never,  I  believe,  been  adequately  conceived, 
or  systematicallv  discussed,  I  may  perhaps  be  permitted,  on  this  occiision,  to  ado\it  the  language  of  science,  and  to  assume  tlie 
merit  of  discovery."  We  feel  called  upon  to  mention  that  the  high  merit  of  the  "  discovery"  (the  great  feature  of  Mr. 
Hunter's  bookl  that  the  island  of  the  Tempest  was  Lampedusa,  iucontestibly  belongs  to  Mr.  Tliomas  Rodd,  and  not  to 
Mr.  Hunter.  Mr.  Hunter,  in  a  note  at  the  end  of  his  notice  on  this  subject,  indeed  acknowledges  that  he  received  the 
Jirst  suggestion  of  the  identity  of  the  island  of  Prospero  with  Lampedusa,  many  years  ago  from  Mr.  Rodd.  But  it  is  our 
dutj-  to  state  that,  in  the  summer  of  1838,  Mr.  Rodd  very  kindly  put  into  our  hands  a  manuscript  for  the  purpose  of  publication 
in  our  edition  of  Tlie  Tem\iest,  in  which  he  not  only  suggests  this  identity,  but  works  it  ovit  in  a  manner  wliieli  exliibits,  besides 
his  "  intimate  acquaintance  with  books  and  their  contents,"  the  sagacity  and  judgment  with  which  he  has  pursued  this  curious 
inquiry.  In  this  manuscript  Mr.  Rodd  gives  the  identical  quotation  fi-ora  Crusius  which  Mr.  Hunter  prints  at  p.  20 :  and 
which  is  by  far  the  most  important  of  the  passages  quoted  by  Mr.  Hunter,  as  the  Turco-Grcetia  existed  in  the  time  of 
Shakspere. 

181 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Coleridge  and  Tieck,  that  the  sketch  of  Cymbeline  belongs  to  the  youthful  Sliakspere.     We  have 
fancied  that  it  is  almost  possible  to  trace  in  some  instances  the  dove-tailing  of  the  original  with  the 
improved  drama.    The  principal  incidents  of  the  story  of  Imogen  are  in  Boccaccio.    Of  course,  with 
reference  to  the  knowledge  of  Shakspere,  we  do  not  hold  with  Steevens  that  they,  "in  their  original 
Italian,  to  him  at  least,  were  inaccessible."      Such  a  fable  was  exactly  one  which  would  have  been 
seized  upon  by  him  who,  from  the  very  earliest  period  of  his  career,  saw,  in  those  reflections  of  life 
which  the  Italian  novelists  present,  the  materials  of  bringing  out  the  manifold  aspects  of  human 
nature  in  the  most  striking  forms  of  truth  and  beauty.     As  far  as  the  main  action  of  the  drama  was 
concerned,  therefore,  we  hold  that  it  was  as  accessible  to  the  Shaksjjere  of  five-and-twenty  as  it  was 
to  the  Shakspere  of  five-and-forty;  and  that  he  had  not  to  wait  for  the  publication  in  1603  of  a 
story-book  in  which  the  tales  which  were  the  common  property  of  Europe  were  remodelled  with 
English  scenes  and  characters,  to  have  produced  Cymbeline,      All  the  accessories  too  of  the  story 
were  familiar  to  him  in  his  early  career.     He  threw  the  scene  with  marvellous  judgment  into  the 
dim  jieriod  of  British  history,  when  there  was  enough  of  fact  to  give  precision  to  his  painting,  and 
enough  of  fable  to  cast  over  it  that  twilight  hue  which  all  young  poets  love,  because  it  is  of  the  very 
truth  of  poetry.     Assiuning,  then,  that  Cymbeline  might  have  been  sketched  at  an  early  period,  and 
comparing  it  more  especially  with  Pericles,  which  assuredly  has  not  been  re-written,  we  venture  to 
express  a  belief  that  the  scenes  have,  in  some  parts,  been  greatly  elaborated ;  and  that  this  elabora- 
tion has  had  the  effect  of  thrusting  forward  such  a  quantity  of  incidents  into  the  fifth  act  as  to  have 
rendered  it  absolutely  necessary  to  resort  to  pantomimic  action  or  dumb  show,  an  example  of  which 
occurs  in  no  other  of  Shakspere's  works.     This  might  have  been  remedied  by  omitting  the  "appari- 
tion" in  the  fifth  act,  which  either  not  belongs  to  Shakspere  at  all,  or  belongs  to  the  period  when  he 
had  not  clearly  seen  his  way  to  shake  off  the  trammels  of  the  old  stage.     But  would  an  audience 
familiar  with  that  scene  have  parted  from  it?     We  believe  not.    The  fifth  act,  as  we  think,  presents 
to  us  very  strikingly  the  differences  between  the  young  and  the  mature  Shakspere,  always  bearing 
in  mind  that  the  skill  of  such  a  master  of  his  art  has  rendered  it  very  difficult  to  conjecture  what 
were  the  differences  between  his  sketch  and  his  finished  picture.     The  soliloquy  of  Posthumvis  in 
that  Act,  in  its  fullness  of  thought,belongs  to  the  finished  performance, — the  minute  stage  directions 
which  follow  to  the  unfinished.      Nothing  can   be  more  certain   than  that  the  dialogue  between 
Posthumus  and  the  gaoler  is  of  the  period  of  deep  philosophical  speculation  ;  while  the  tablet  left 
by  Jupiter  has  a  wondrous  resemblance  to  the  odd  things  of  the  early  stage.*     We  throw  out  these 
observations  rather  as  hints  for  the  student  of  Shakspere,   than  as  opinions  in  which  we  expect  our 
readers  will  agree.     The  greater  part  of  the  play  is  certainly  such  as  no  one  but  Shakspere  could 
have  written,  and  not  only  so,  but  Shakspere  in  the  full  possession  and  habitual  exercise  of  his 
powers.     The  movmtain  scenes  with  Imogen  and  her  brothers  are  perhaps  unequalled,  even  in  the 
whole  compass  of  the  Shaksperian  drama.    They  are  of  the  very  highest  order  of  poetical  beauty, — 
not  such  an  outpouring  of  beauty  as  in  the  Romeo  and  Juliet  and  The  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 
where  the  master  of  harmonious  verse  revels  in  all  the  graces  of  his  art — but  of  beauty  entirely 
subservient  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  characters,  the  progress  of  the  action,  the  scenery,  ay,  and 
the  very  period  of  the  drama,  whatever  Dr.  Johnson  may  say  of  "  incongruity."     There  is  nothing 

*  Schlesel  lias  a  remarkable  theory  witli  reference  to  the  apparition-scene,  whicli  we  present  to  our  readers.  It  is  not  ob- 
jected that  "  the  aged  parents  and  brothers  of  Posthumus  speak  the  language  of  a  more  simple  olden  time,"  but  that  they  do 
not  speak  the  language  of  poetry,  such  as  Shakspere  would  have  chosen  "to  express  a  leeble  sound  of  wailing."  What  Schlegel 
says  of  the  speech  of  Jupiter  has  great  truth.     Nothing,  for  example,  can  be  in  a  higher  strain  than — 

"  Poor  shadows  of  Elysium,  hence;  and  test 
Upon  your  never-withering  banks  of  flowers." 

"  Pope,  as  is  well  known,  was  strongly  disposed  to  declare  whole  scenes  for  interpolations  of  the  players;  but  his  opinions 
were  not  much  listened  to.  However,  Steevens  still  accedes  to  the  opinion  of  Pojie,  respecting  the  apparition  of  the  ghosts 
and  of  Jupiter  in  Cymbeline,  while  Posthumus  is  sleeping  in  the  dungeon.  But  Posthumus  finds,  on  waking,  a  tablet  on  his 
breast,  with  a  prophecy  on  which  the  denouement  of  the  piece  depends.  Is  it  to  be  imagined  that  Shakspere  would  require  of 
his  spectators  the  belief  in  a  wonder  without  a  visible  cause?  Is  Posthumus  to  dream  this  tablet  with  the  prophecy?  But 
these  gentlemen  do  not  descend  to  this  objection.  The  verses  whicli  the  apparitions  deliver  do  not  appear  to  them  good  enough 
to  be  Shakspere's.  I  imagine  I  can  discover  why  the  poet  has  not  given  them  more  of  the  splendour  of  diction.  They  are 
the  aged  parents  and  brothers  of  Posthumus,  who,  from  concern  for  his  fate,  return  from  the  world  below :  they  ought, 
consequently,  to  speak  the  language  of  a  more  simple  olden  time,  and  their  voices  ought  also  to  appear  as  a  feeble  sound  of 
wailing,  when  contrasted  with  the  thuiuleriug  oracular  language  of  Jupiter.  For  this  reason  Shakspere  chose  a  syllabic 
measure,  which  was  \ery  common  before  his  time,  but  which  was  then  getting  out  of  fashion,  though  it  still  continued  to  be 
fre(iuently  used,  especially  in  translations  of  classical  poets.  In  some  such  m;inuer  might  the  shades  express  themsehes  in  the 
then  existing  translations  of  Homer  ;\nd  Virgil.  The  speech  of  Jupiter  is  on  the  other  hand  majestic,  and  in  form  and  style 
bears  a  complete  resemblance  to  the  sonnets  of  Shakspere." — Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature,  vol.  ii. 

182 


CYMBELINE. 

to  us  more  striking  than  the  contrast  which  is  'presented  between  the  free  natural  lyrics  sung  by 
the  brothers  over  the  grave  of  Fidele,  and  the  elegant  poem  which  some  have  thought  so  much 
more  beautiful.  The  one  is  perfectly  in  keeping  with  all  that  precedes  and  all  that  follows  ;  the 
other  is  entirely  out  of  harmony  with  its  associations.  "  To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb"  is  the  dirge 
of  Collins  over  Fidele;  "  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun"  is  Fidele's  proper  funeral  song  by  her 
bold  brothers.  It  is  this  marvellous  power  of  going  out  of  himself  that  renders  it  so  difficult  to  say 
that  Shakspere  is  at  any  time  inferior  to  himself.  If  it  were  not  for  this  exercise  of  power,  even  in 
the  smallest  characters,  we  might  think  that  Cloten  was  of  the  immature  Shakspere.  But  then  he 
has  made  Cloten  his  own,  by  one  or  two  magic  touches,  so  as  to  leave  no  doubt  that,  if  he  was  at 
first  a  somewhat  hasty  sketch,  he  is  now  a  finished  portrait.  "  The  snatches  in  his  voice  and  burst 
of  speaking"  identify  him  as  the  "  very  Cloten"  that  none  other  but  Shakspere  could  have  painted. 


Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 

"Mr.  Pope,"  says  Steevens,  "supposed  the  story  of  this  play  to  have  been  borrowed  from  a 
novel  of  Boccace ;  but  he  was  mistaken,  as  an  imitation  of  it  is  found  in  an  old  story-book  en- 
titled '  Westward  for  Smelts.' "  This  is  unquestionably  one  of  Steevens'  random  assertions.  Malone 
has  printed  the  tale,  and  has  expressed  his  opinion,  in  opposition  to  that  of  Steevens,  that  the 
general  scheme  of  Cymbeline  is  founded  on  Boccaccio's  novel  (9th  story  of  the  second  day  of  the 
Decameron).  Mrs.  Lennox  has  given,  in  her  '  Shakspear  Illustrated,'  a  paraphrase  of  Boccaccio's 
story ;  which  she  has  mixed  up  with  more  irreverent  impertinence  towards  Shakspere  than  can  be 
perhaps  found  elsewhere  in  the  English  language,  except  in  Dr.  Johnson's  judgment  upon  this 
play,  which  sounds  very  like  "prisoner  at  the  bar."  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  the  odour 
of  Mrs.  Lennox's  criticisms  upon  Shakspere  had  been  dissipated  long  before  the  close  of  the  last 
century;  but,  nevertheless,  Mr.  Dunlop,  in  his  '  History  of  Fiction,'  published  in  1816,  makes  the 
opinions  of  Mrs.  Lennox  his  own:  "The  incidents  of  the  novel  have  been  very  closely  adhered  to 
by  Shakespeare,  but,  as  has  been  remarked  by  an  acute  and  elegant  critic  (Mrs.  Lennox),  the 
scenes  and  characters  have  been  most  injudiciously  altered,  and  the  manners  of  a  tradesman's  wife, 
and  two  intoxicated  Italian  merchants,  have  been  bestowed  on  a  great  princess,  a  British  hero, 
and  a  noble  Roman."  Mr.  Dunlop,  however,  has  given  a  neat  abridgment  of  the  tale ;  and  in 
this  matter  it  will  be  sufficient  to  refer  the  general  reader  to  his  work,  and  the  Italian  student  to 
Boccaccio. 

Shakspere  found  his  historical  materials  in  Holinshed ;  and  he  has  adhered  to  them  as  far  as 
is  consistent  with  the  progress  of  a  romantic  story.  The  following  extracts  include  all  in  Holinshed 
that  bears  upon  the  plot  of  this  drama. 

"  After  the  death  of  Cassibellane,  Theomautius  or  Leuautius,  the  youngest  son  of  Lud,  was  made  king  of  Britain  in  the 
year  of  the  world  3921,  after  the  building  of  Rome  706,  and  before  the  coming  of  Christ  45.     ********** 
Theomautius  ruled  the  land  in  good  quiet,  and  paid  the  tribute  to  the  Romans  which  Cassibellane  had  granted,  and  finally 
departed  this  life  after  he  had  reigned  twenty-two  years,  and  was  buried  at  London. 

"  Kymbeline  or  Cimbeline,  the  son  of  Theomautius,  was  of  the  Britains  made  king,  after  the  decease  of  his  father,  in  the 
year  of  the  world  3944,  after  the  building  of  Rome  728,  and  before  the  birth  of  our  Saviour  33.  This  man  (as  some  write) 
was  brought  up  at  Rome,  and  there  made  knight  by  Augustus  Cajsar,  under  whom  he  served  in  the  wars,  and  was  in  such 
favour  with  him,  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  pay  his  tribute  or  not.  *******  Touching  the  continuance  of  the 
years  of  Kymbeline's  reign  some  writers  do  vary,  but  the  best  approved  affirm  that  he  reigned  thirty-five  years  and  then 
died,  and  was  buried  at  London,  leaving  behind  him  two  sons,  Guiderius  and  Arviragus.  But  here  is  to  be  noted  that, 
although  our  histories  do  affirm  that  as  well  this  Kymbeline,  as  also  his  father  Theomautius,  lived  in  quiet  with  the  Romans, 
and  continually  to  them  paid  the  tributes  which  the  Britains  had  covenanted  with  Julius  Ceesar  to  pay,  yet  we  find  m  the 
Roman  writers,  that  after  Julius  Caesar's  death,  when  Augustus  had  taken  upon  him  the  rule  of  the  empire,  the  Britains 
refused  to  pay  that  tribute  :  whereat,  as  Cornelius  Tacitus  reporteth,  Augustus  (being  otherwise  occupied)  was  contented  to 
wink  ;  howbeit,  through  earnest  calling  upon  to  recover  his  right  by  such  as  were  desirous  to  see  the  uttermost  of  the  British 
kingdom  ;  at  length,  to  wit,  in  the  tenth  year  after  the  death  of  Julius  Caesar,  which  was  about  the  thirteenth  year  of  the 
said  Tlieomautius,  Augustus  made  provision  to  pass  with  an  army  over  into  Britain,  and  was  come  forward  upon  his  journey 
into  Gallia  Celtica,  or,  as  we  may  say,  into  these  hither  parts  of  France. 

"  But  here  receiving  advertisements  that  the  Pannonians,  which  inhabited  the  country  now  called  Hungary,  and  the  Dalma- 
tians, whom  now  we  call  Slavons,  had  rebelled,  he  thought  it  best  first  to  subdue  those  rebels  near  home,  rather  than  to  seek 

183 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

uew  countries,  ami  leave  such  in  hazard  whereof  he  had  present  possession,  and  so,  turning  his  power  against  the  Pannonians 
and  Dalmatians,  he  left  off  for  a  time  the  wars  of  Britain,  whereby  the  land  remained  without  fear  of  any  invasion  to  be  made 
by  the  Romans  till  the  year  after  the  building  of  the  city  of  Rome  725,  and  about  the  nineteenth  year  of  king  Theomautius' 
reign,  that  Augustus  with  an  army  departed  once  again  from  Rome  to  pass  over  into  Britain,  there  to  make  war.  But  after 
his  coming  into  Gallia,  when  the  Britains  sent  to  him  certain  ambassadors  to  treat  with  him  of  peace,  he  staid  there  to  settle 
the  state  of  things  among  the  Galles,  for  that  they  were  not  in  very  good  order.  And  having  finished  there,  he  went  into 
Spain,  and  so  his  journey  into  Britain  was  put  off  till  the  next  year,  that  is,  the  726th  after  the  building  of  Rome,  which  fell 
before  the  birth  of  our  Saviour  25,  about  which  time  Augustus  eftsoons  meant  the  third  time  to  have  made  a  voyage  into  Britain, 
because  they  could  not  agree  upon  covenants.  But  as  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians  had  aforetime  staid  him,  when  (as 
before  is  said)  he  meant  to  have  gone  against  the  Britains ;  so  e\en  now  the  Salasstians  (a  people  inhabiting  about  Italy  and 
Switzerland),  the  Cantabrians  and  Asturians,  by  such  rebellious  stirs  as  they  raised,  v\ithdrew  him  from  his  purposed  journey. 
But  whether  this  controversy,  which  appeareth  to  fall  forth  betwixt  the  Britains  and  Augustus,  was  occasioned  by  Kymbeliue, 
or  some  other  prince  of  the  Britains,  I  have  not  to  avouch  :  for  that  by  our  writers  it  is  reported  that  Kymbel  ine,  being  brought 
up  in  Rome,  and  knighted  in  the  court  of  Augustus,  ever  showed  himself  a  friend  to  the  Romans,  and  chiefly  was  loth  to  break 
with  them,  because  the  youth  of  the  Britain  nation  should  not  be  deprived  of  the  benefit  to  be  trained  and  brought  up  among 
the  Romans,  whereby  they  might  learn  both  to  behave  themselves  like  civil  men,  and  to  attain  to  the  knowledge  of  feats  of 
war.  But  whether  for  this  respect,  or  for  that  it  pleased  the  Almighty  God  so  to  dispose  the  minds  of  men  at  that  present,  not 
only  the  Britains,  but  in  manner  all  other  nations,  were  contented  to  be  obedient  to  the  Roman  empire.  That  this  was  true 
in  the  Britains,  it  is  evident  enough  in  Strabo's  words,  which  are  in  effect  as  foUoweth  : — '  At  this  present  (saith  he)  certain 
princes  of  Britain,  procuring  by  ambassadors  and  dutiful  demeaners  the  amity  of  the  emperor  Augustus,  have  offered  in  the 
Capitol  unto  the  gods  presents  or  gifts,  and  have  ordained  the  whole  ile  iu  a  manner  to  be  appertinent,  proper,  and  familiar  to 
the  Romans.  They  are  burdened  with  sore  customs  which  they  pay  for  wars,  either  to  be  sent  forth  into  Gallia,  or  brought 
from  thence,  which  are  commonly  ivory  vessels,  shears,  onches  or  earrings,  and  other  conceits  made  of  amber  and  glasses, 
and  sucli  like  manner  of  merchandise  :  so  that  now  there  is  no  need  of  any  army  or  garrison  of  men  of  war  to  keep  the  ile,  for 
there  needeth  not  past  one  legion  of  footmen,  or  some  wing  of  horsemen,  to  gather  up  and  receive  the  tribute;  for  the  charges 
are  rated  according  to  the  quantity  of  the  tributes  :  for  otherwise  it  should  be  needful  to  abate  the  customs,  if  the  tributes  were 
also  raised;  and  if  any  violence  should  be  used,  it  were  dangerous  least  they  might  be  provoked  to  rebellion.'  Thus  far 
Strabo." 


[Coin  of  Cunobelinus.] 


Costume. 

For  the  dress  of  our  ancient  British  ancestors  of  the  time  of  Cymbeline  or  Cimobelin  we  have 
no  pictorial  authority,  and  the  notices  of  ancient  British  costume  which  we  find  scattered  amongst 
the  classical  historians  are  exceedingly  scanty  and  indefinite.  That  the  chiefs  and  the  superior 
classes  amongst  them,  however,  were  clothed  completely  and  with  barbaric  splendour,  there  exists 
at  present  little  doubt ;  and  the  naked  savages  with  painted  skins  whose  imaginary  effigies  adorned 
the  '  Pictorial  Histories'  of  our  childhood,  are  now  considered  to  convey  a  better  idea  of  the  more 
remote  and  barbarous  tribes  of  the  Maseatae  than  of  the  inhabitants  of  Cantium  or  Kent,  ("  the  most 
civilized  of  all  the  Britons"  as  early  as  the  time  of  Cresar,)  and  even  to  represent  those  only  when, 
in  accordance  with  a  Celtic  custom,  they  had  thrown  off  their  garments  of  skin  or  dyed  cloths  to 
rush  upon  an  invading  enemy. 

That  all  the  Britons  stained  themselves  with  woad,  which  gave  a  blueish  cast  to  the  skin  and 
made  them  look  dreadful  in  battle,  is  distinctly  stated  by  Cassar :  but  he  also  assures  us  expressly 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  southern  coasts  differed  but  little  in  their  manners  from  the  Gauls,  an 
assertion  which  is  confirmed  by  the  testimony  of  Strabo,  Tacitus,  and  Pomponius  Mela,  the  latter 
of  wliom  says  "  the  Britons  fought  armed  after  the  Gaulish  manner." 

The  following  description  therefore  of  the  Gauls  by  Diodorus  Siculus  becomes  an  authority  for 
the  arms  and  dress  of  the  Britons,  particularly  as  in  many  parts  it  corresponds  with  such  evidence 
as  exists  in  other  cotemporaneous  writers  respecting  the  dress  of  the  Britons  themselves. 
184 


CYMBELINE. 

"  The  Gauls  wear  bracelets  about  their  wrists  and  arms,  and  massy  chains  of  pure  and  beaten 
gold  about  their  necks,  and  weighty  rings  upon  their  fingers,*  and  corslets  of  gold  upon  their 
breasts.f  For  stature  they  are  tall,  of  a  pale  complexion,  and  red-haired,  not  only  naturally,  but 
they  endeavour  all  they  can  to  make  it  redder  by  art.+  They  often  wash  their  hair  in  a  water 
boiled  witli  lime,  and  turn  it  backwards  from  the  forehead  to  the  crown  of  the  head,  and  thence  to 

their  very  necks,  that  their  faces  may  be  fully  seen Some  of  them  shave  their 

beards,  others  let  them  grow  a  little.  Persons  of  quality  shave  their  chins  close,  but  their  mous- 
taches they  let  fall  so  low  that  they  even  cover  their  mouths.§  .  .  .  Their  garments  are  very 
strange,  for  they  wear  party-coloured  tunics  (flowered  with  various  colours  in  divisions)  and  hose 
which  they  call  Bracse.||  They  likewise  wear  chequered  sagas  (cloaks).  Those  they  wear  in 
winter  are  thick,  those  in  summer  more  slender.  Upon  their  heads  they  wear  helmets  of  brass 
with  large  appendages  made  for  ostentation's  sake  to  be  admired  by  the  beholders.  .  .  .  They 
have  trumpets  after  the  barbarian  manner,  which  in  sounding  make  a  horrid  noise.  .  .  .  For 
swords  they  use  a  broad  weapon  called  Spatha,  which  they  hang  across  their  right  thigh  by  iron 
or  brazen  chains.     Some  gird  themselves  with  belts  of  gold  or  silver." 


[Gaulish  Captive  wearing  tlie  Torque.] 

In  elucidation  of  the  particidar  expression  made  use  of  by  Diodorus  in  describing  the  varieo-ated 
tissues  of  the  Gauls,  and  which  has  been  translated  "  flowered  with  various  colours  in  divisions  " 
we  have  the  account  of  Pliny,  who,  after  telling  us  that  both  the  Gauls  and  Britons  excelled  in  the 
art  of  making  and  dyeing  cloth,  and  enumerating  several  herbs  used  for  dyeing  purple,  scarlet,  and 
other  colours,  says  that  they  spun  their  fine  wool,  so  dyed,  into  yarn,  which  was  woven  chequer- 
wise so  as  to  form  small  squares,  some  of  one  colour  and  some  of  another.  Sometimes  it  was  woven 
in  stripes  instead  of  chequers ;  and  we  cannot  hesitate  in  believing  that  the  tartan  of  the  Hio-h- 
landers  (to  this  day  called  "  the  garb  of  old  Gaul  ")  and  the  checked  petticoats  and  aprons  of  the 
modern  Welsh  peasantry  are  the  lineal  descendants  of  this  ancient  and  picturesque  manufacture. 
With  respect  to  their  ornaments  of  gold,  we  may  add,  in  addition  to  the  classical  authorities,  the 
testimony  of  the  Welsh  bards.  In  the  Welsh  Triads,  Cadwaladyr,  son  of  Cadwallon  ab  Cadwan, 
the  last  who  bore  the  title  of  King  of  Britain,  is  styled  one  of  the  three  princes  who  wore  the  golden 
bands,  being  emblems  of  supreme  authority,  and  which,  according  to  Turner,  were  worn  roimd  the 
neck,  arms,  and  knees. 

Of  the  golden  neck-chains,  or  torques  (torch  or  dorch  in  Welsh),  there  are  several  existing  spe- 
cimens. One  has  been  found  of  silver,  and  several  of  brass.  The  bronze  sword  and  small  battle- 
axe,  or  celt,  as  it  is  called,  of  the  ancient  Britons,  are   to   be  found  in  many  collections  ;  and  at 

*  Pliny  says  the  Britons  and  Gauls  wore  a  ring  on  the  middle  finger. 

t  A  IJritish  corslet  of  gold  lately  found  at  Mold,  in  Flintshire,  is  now  in  the  British  Museum. 

t  Strabo  says  the  Britous  are  taller  tlum  the  Gauls ;  their  hair  not  so  yellow,  and  their  bodies  looser  built. 

§   Caesar  tells  us  the  Britons  were  long-haiied,  and  shaved  all  the  body  except  the  head  and  tlie  upper  lip. 

II  Martial  has  a  line  "  Like  the  old  braehse  of  a  needy  Briton." — Epig.  ix.  21.  They  appear  on  the  legs  of  the  Gaulisli 
figures  in  many  Roman  sculptures  to  have  been  a  sort  of  loose  pantaloon,  terminating  at  the  ankle,  where  tliey  were  met  by  a 
high  shoe  or  brogue.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  Highland  truis  is  a  modilication  of  this  ancient  trouser,  if  not  {he 
deutical  weed  itself. 

185 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


[Spear-Head  and  Celt.] 

Goodrich  Court  are  two  very  large  round  bronze  shields  of  the  earlier  period,  and  an  oblong  one 
of  the  Roman-British  era.     A  smaller  roimd  shield,  recently  found,  is  in  the  British  Museum. 


In  the  British  Museum. 


[British  Shields.] 


In  the  Meyrick  Collection. 


The  Druids  were  divided  into  three  classes.  The  sacerdotal  order  wore  white,  the  bards  blue, 
and  the  third  order,  the  Ovates  or  Obydds,  who  professed  letters,  medicine,  and  astronomy,  wore 
green. 

Dion  Cassius  describes  the  dress  of  a  British  queen  in  the  person  of  the  famous  Bonduca  or 
Boadicea.  He  tells  us  that  she  wore  a  torque  of  gold,  a  tunic  of  several  colours  all  in  folds,  and 
over  it  a  robe  of  coarse  stuff.     Her  light  hair  fell  down  her  shoulders  far  below  the  waist. 

The  costume  and  arms  of  the  Romans  will  be  noticed  at  considerable  length  in  the  Parts  appro- 
priated to  the  Tragedies  of  Coriolanus  and  Julius  Caesar. 


Scenery. 

"  The  people  of  Britain,"  says  Strabo,  "  are  generally  ignorant  of  the  art  of  cultivating  gar- 
dens." By  "  the  garden  behind  Cymbeline's  palace"  we  should  perhaps,  therefore,  in  the  spirit  of 
minute  antiquarianism,  understand  "  a  grove."  But  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that  the  Romans  had 
not  introduced  their  arts  to  an  extent  that  might  liave  made  Cymbeline's  palace  bear  some  of  the 
characteristics  of  a  Roman  villa.  A  highly-civilised  people  very  quickly  impart  the  external  forms 
186 


CYMBELINE. 

of  their  civilisation  to  those  whom  they  have  colonised.  We  do  not  therefore  object,  even  in  a 
prosaic  view  of  the  matter,  that  the  garden,  as  om-  artist  has  represented  it,  has  more  of  ornament 
than  belongs  to  the  Druidical  grove.  The  houses  of  the  inhabitants  in  general  might  retain  in 
a  great  degree  their  primitive  rudeness.  When  Julius  Csesar  invaded  Britain,  the  people  of  the 
southern  coasts  had  already  learned  to  build  houses  a  little  more  substantial  and  convenient  than 
those  of  the  inland  inhabitants.  "  The  country,"  he  remarks,  "  abounds  in  houses,  which  very 
much  resemble  those  of  Gaul."  Now  those  of  Gaul  are  thus  described  by  Strabo  :— "  They 
build  their  houses  of  wood,  in  the  form  of  a  circle,  with  lofty  tapering  roofs."  Lib.  v.  The  founda- 
tions of  some  of  the  most  substantial  of  these  circular  houses  were  of  stone,  of  which  there  are  still 
some  remains  in  Cornwall,  Anglesey,  and  other  places.  Strabo  says,  "  The  forests  of  the  Britons 
are  their  cities ;  for,  when  they  have  enclosed  a  very  large  circuit  with  felled  trees,  they  build  within 
it  houses  for  themselves  and  hovels  for  their  cattle."— Lib.  iv.  But  Cymbeline  was  one  of  the  most 
wealthy  and  powerful  of  the  ancient  British  kings.  His  capital  was  Camulodunum,  supposed  to 
be  IMaidon  or  Colchester.  It  was  the  first  Roman  colony  in  this  island,  and  a  place  of  great  mag- 
nificence. We  have  not  therefore  to  assume  that  ornament  would  be  misplaced  in  it.  Though 
the  walls  of  Imogen's  chamber,  still  subjecting  the  poetical  to  the  exact,  might  by  some  be  con- 
sidered as  proper  to  be  of  rude  stone  or  wood,  it  may  very  fairly  be  supposed  that  it  was  decorated 
with  the  rich  hangings  and  the  other  tasteful  appendages  described  by  lachimo  * — the  presents  of 
the  Roman  emperors,  with  whom  Cymbeline  and  his  ancestors  had  been  in  amity,  or  procured 
from  the  Greek  and  Phoenician  merchants,  who  were  constantly  in  commercial  intercourse  with 
Britain.  (See,  for  fuller  information  on  this  subject,  '  The  Costume  of  the  Original  Inhabitants 
of  the  British  Isles,' by  S.  R.  Meyrick,  LL.D.,  and  Chas.  Hamilton  Smith,  Esq.;  fol.  Lond.  1821.) 
But,  after  all,  a  play  such  as  C3^mbeline,  is  not  to  be  viewed  through  the  medium  only  of  the  literal 
and  the  probable.  In  its  poetical  aspect  it  essentially  disregards  the  few  facts  respecting  the  con- 
dition of  the  Britons  delivered  down  by  the  classic  historians.  Shakspere  in  this  followed  the  prac- 
tice of  every  writer  of  the  romantic  school.  The  costume  (including  scenery)  had  better  want 
conformity  with  Strabo,  than  be  out  of  harmony  with  Shakspere. 

*  The  "  andirons"  and  "  chimney-piece"  belong  to  the  age  of  Elizabeth.     But  Shakspere,  when  he  commits  what  we  call 
anaclironisms,  uses  what  is  familiar  to  render  intelligible  what  would  otherwise  be  obscure  and  remote. 


[Conflict  between  Romans  and  Barbarians.     From  the  Arch  of  Trajan] 


187 


-  '■Mi'^'"-,^      I 


'M~ 


^^^)l^Pf^^^^''^^''^^% 


[Tlie  Giirdeii.] 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— Britain.     The  Garden  behind 
Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Two  Gentlemen. 

1  Gent.  You  do  not  meet  a  man  but  frowns : 

our  bloods 
No  more  obey  the  heavens,  than  our  coiurtiers 
Still  seem  as  does  the  king.  * 

2  Gent.  But  what's  the  matter? 

»  The  passage  in  the  original  edition  (folio  of  1623)  stands 
thus : — 

"  You  do  not  meet  a  man  but  frowns. 
Our  bloods  no  more  obey  the  heavens 
Then  our  courtiers : 
Still  seem,  as  do's  the  king's." 
In  modern  editions  courtiers  is  sometimes  printed  as  the  geni- 
tive case :  sometimes  is  cut  off  from  the  verb  seem  by  a  semi- 
colon, and  the  king's  is  retained  as  the  genitive  cast*.     This 
we  have  ventured  to  alter  to  king,  as  Tyrw  hitt  suggested.     As 
we  have  punctuated  the  passage,  we  think  it  presents  no  diffi- 
culty.    Bliujd  is  used  by  Shakspere  for  natural  disposition,  as 
in  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well— 

"  Now  his  important  blood  will  nought  deny 
Tliat  she'll  demand." 
The  meaning  of  the  passage  then  is — You  do  not  meet  a  man 
but  frowns :  our  bloods  do  not  more  obey  the  heavens  than 
our  courtiers  still  seem  as  the  king  seems.     As  is  afterwards 
expressed — 

"  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 

Of  the  king's  looks." 

Tragedies. — Vol.  I.  2  H 


1  Ge7it.    His  daughter,  and  the  heir  of  his 

kingdom,  whom 
He  purpos'd  to  his  mfe's  sole  son,  (a  widow, 
That  late  he  married,)  hath  referr'd  herself 
Unto   a    poor   but    worthy   gentleman :    She's 

wedded ; 
Her  husband  banish'd ;  she  imprison'd  :  all 
Is  outward  sorrow  ;  though,  I  think,  the  king 
Be  touch'd  at  very  heart. 

2  Ge7it.  None  but  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  He  that  hath  lost  her,  too  :  so  is  the 

queen, 
That  most  desir'd  the  match  :  But  not  a  courtier, 
Although  they  wear  their  faces  to  the  bent 
Of  the  king's  looks,  hath  a  heart  that  is  not 
Glad  at  the  thing  they  scowl  at. 

2  Gent.  And  why  so  ? 

1  Ge7it.  He  that  hath  miss'd  the  princess  is  a 
thing 
Too  bad  for  bad  report :  and  he  that  hath  her, 
(I  mean,  that  married  her,— alack,  good  man!  — 
And  therefore  banish'd,)  is  a  creature  such 
As  to  seek  through  the  regions  of  the  earth 

189 


Art  I.J 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  II. 


For  one  his  like,  there  would  be  something  failing 
In  him  that  should  compare.     I  do  not  think 
So  fair  an  outward,  and  such  stuff  within, 
Endows  a  man  but  he. 

2  Gent.  You  speak  him  far.* 

1  Gent.  I  do  extend  **  him,  sir,  within  himself ; 
Crush  him  together,  rather  than  unfold 

His  measure  duly. 

2  Gent.  What's  his  name,  and  birth  ? 

1  Gent.  I  cannot  delve  him  to  the  root:  His 
father 
Was  call'd  Sicilius,  who  did  join  his  honour, 
Against  the  Romans,  with  Cassibelan  ; 
But  had  his  titles  by  Tenantius,  whom 
He  serv'd  with  glory  and  admir'd  success  : 
So  gain'd  the  sur-addition,  Leonatus  : 
And  had,  besides  this  gentleman  in  question. 
Two  other  sons,  who,  in  the  wars  o'the  time. 
Died  with  their  swords  in  hand ;  for  which,  their 

father 
(Then  old  and  fond  of  issue,)  took  such  sorrow 
That  he  quit  being ;  and  his  gentle  lady, 
Big  of  this  gentleman,  our  theme,  deceas'd 
As  he  was  born.     The  king,  he  takes  the  babe 
To  his  protection ;    calls  him  Posthumus  Leo- 
natus "^ ; 
Breeds  him,  and  makes  him  of  his  bed-chamber: 
Puts  to  him ''  all  the  learnings  that  his  time 
Could  make  him  the  receiver  of;  which  he  took, 
As  we  do  air,  fast  as  'twas  ministered. 
And  in's  spring  became  a  harvest  :*  Liv'din  court, 
(Which  rare  it  is  to  do,)  most  prais'd,  mostlov'd: 
A  sample  to  the  youngest ;  to  th'  more  mature 
A  glass  that  feated ''  them ;  and  to  the  graver, 

"  You  carry  your  praise /ar. 

••  Extend  is  liere  used  in  the  same  sense  as  in  the  fifth  Scene 
of  this  Act :  "  His  banishment,  and  tlie  approbation  of  those 
tliat  weep  this  lamentable  divorce  are  wonderfully  to  extend 
liim."  Tlie  Gentleman  says — I  do  extend  him — appreciate  his 
good  qualities — but  only  within  the  real  limits  of  what  they 
are:  instead  oi unfolding  liis  measure  duly,  I  crush  him  to- 
gether— compress  his  excellence.  Malone  thinks  that  the 
terra  extend  is  originally  legal.  An  extent,  according  to 
Blackstone,  is  an  order  to  the  sheriff  to  appraise  lands  or 
goods  to  their  full  extended  value.  It  is  a  well-known  term 
in  old  Scotch  law,  meaning  nearly  the  same  as  a  census  or 
valuation. 

<=  So 'he  folio.  The  modern  editors  have  rejected  the  second 
name,  reading — 

"  To  his  protection;  calls  him  Poslimmus." 
To  make  a  line  of  ten  syllables— as  if  dramatic  rhytlim  had 
no  irregularities — they  have  destroyed  the  sense.  The  name 
of  Posthumus  Leonatus  was  given  to  connect  the  child  with  the 
memory  of  his  father,  and  to  mark  the  circumstance  of  his 
being  born  after  his  father's  death. 

J  Vuts  to  him.  is  the  original  reading,  which  has  been  silently 
corrupted  into  puts  him  to. 

'  We  arrange  these  two  lines,  as  in  the  folio.  The  modern 
editors  read — 

"  As  we  do  air,  fast  as  'twas  minister'd,  and 
In  his  spring  became  a  harvest." 

f  Feated.  Jolinson  says,  "a glass  that /ormed  them."  But 
feat  is  vised  by  Shakspere  for  nice,  exact,  with  propriety — as 
in  Tlie  Tem^iest — 

"  And  look  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me 
Mwchfeater  than  before  ;" 

190 


A  child  that  guided  dotards  :  to  his  mistress — 
For  whom  he  now  is  banish 'd, — her  own  price 
Proclaims  how  she  esteem'd  him  and  his  virtue  ; 
By  her  election  may  be  truly  read 
Wliat  kind  of  man  he  is. 

2  Ge7it.  I  honour  him 

Even  out  of  your  report.  But,  'pray  you,  tell  me. 
Is  she  sole  child  to  the  king  ? 

1  Gent.  His  only  child. 

He  had  two  sons,  (if  this  be  worth  your  hearing, 
Mark  it,)  the  eldest  of  them  at  three  years  old, 
I'  the   swathing  clothes  the  other,  from  their 

nursery 
Were  stolen ;   and   to   this  hour   no  guess   in 

knowledge 
Which  way  they  went. 

2  Gent.  How  long  is  this  ago  ? 

1  Gent.  Some  twenty  years. 

2  Gent.  That  a  king's  children  should  be  so 

convey'd! 
So  slackly  guarded !  And  the  search  so  slow, 
That  could  not  trace  them ! 

1  Gent.  Howsoe'er  'tis  strange. 
Or  that  the  negligence  may  well  be  laugh'd  at. 
Yet  is  it  true,  sir. 

2  Ge7it.  I  do  well  believe  you. 

1  Gent.  We  must  forbear:  Here  comes  the 
gentleman. 
The  queen,  and  princess."  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 

Enter  the  Queen,  Posthumus,  and  Imogen. 

Queen.  No,  be  assur'd,  you  shall  not  find  me, 
daughter. 
After  the  slander  of  most  step-mothers, 
Evil-ey'd  unto  you  :  you  are  my  prisoner,  but 
Your  gaoler  shall  deliver  you  the  keys 
That  lock  up  your  restraint.  For  you,  Posthumus, 
So  soon  as  I  can  win  the  offended  king, 
I  will  be  known  your  advocate  :  marry,  yet 
The  fire  of  rage  is  in  him ;  and  'twere  good, 
You  lean'd  unto  his  sentence,  with  what  patience 
Your  wisdom  may  inform  you. 

Post.  Please  your  highness, 

I  will  from  hence  to-day. 

Queen.  You  know  the  peril : — 

I'll  fetch  a  turn  about  the  garden,  pitying 
The  pangs  of  barr'd  affections ;  though  the  king 

and,  consequently,  the  glass  which  ^eats  the  mature  who  look 
upon  Posthumus,  is  "  the  mark  and  glass,  copy  and  book," 
which  renders  their  appearance  and  deportment  as  proper  as 
his  own. 

»  Tlie  most  important  person  (with  reference  to  this  con- 
versation) who  was  coming  is  Posthumus — "  the  gentleman." 
The  editors,  however,  quietly  drop  him,  reading — 

"  We  must  forbear  ;  here  comes  the  queen,  and  princess." 
What  can  justify  such  capricious  alterations  of  the  text  ? 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[ScKNt    11. 


Hath  charg'd  you  should  not  speak  togetlier. 

[^Exit  Queen. 

Imo.  O  dissembling  coiu'tcsy !  How  fine  this 
tyrant 
Can   tickle   where   she   woimds ! — My   dearest 

husband, 
I  something  fear  my  father's  wrath ;  but  nothing 
(Always  reservd  my  holy  duty,)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me  :  You  must  be  gone ; 
And  I  shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes ;  not  comforted  to  live, 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world. 
That  I  may  see  again. 

Post.  My  queen  !  my  mistress ! 
O,  lady,  weep  no  more ;  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man !  I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth. 
My  residence  in  Rome,  at  one  Philario's; 
Who  to  my  father  was  a  friend,  to  me 
Known  but  by  letter  :  thither  write,  my  queen, 
And  with  mine  eyes  I'll  drink  the  words  you  send. 
Though  ink  be  made  of  gall. 

Re-enter  Queen. 

Queen.  Be  brief,  I  pray  you  : 

If  the  king  come,  I  shall  incur  I  know  not 
How  much  of  his  displeasure :  Yet  I'll  move  him 

\_Aside. 
To  walk  this  way :  I  never  do  him  wrong. 
But  he  does  buy  my  injmries  to  be  friends  ;* 
Pays  dear  for  my  offences.  \_Exit. 

Post.  Should  we  be  taking  leave 

As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live. 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow  :  Adieu  I 

Imo.  Nay,  stay  a  little  : 
Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself. 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.     Look  here,  love  ; 
This  diamond  was  my  mother's :  take  it,  heart ; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead. 

Post.  How  !  how !   another  ? — 
You  gentle  gods,  give  me  but  this  I  have, 
And  sear  up  my  embracements  from  a  next 
With  bonds  of  death ! — Remain  thou  here 

\_Puttmg  on  the  ring. 
WhUe   sense   can   keep  it   on !    And  sweetest, 

fairest, 
As  I  my  poor  self  did  exchange  for  you, 
To  your  so  infinite  loss ;  so,  in  our  trifles 
I  still  win  of  you :  For  my  sake  wear  this ; 


*  Tliis  sentence  is  obscure  ;  but  the  meaning  of  the  crafty 
Queen  appears  to  be,  tliat  the  kindness  of  her  husband,  even 
when  she  is  doing  him  wrong,  purchases  injuries  as  if  tliey 
were  benefits. 


It  is  a  manacle  of  love;  I'll  place  it 
Upon  this  fairest  prisoner. 

\_Putlmy  a  bracelet  on  Iter  arm. 
Imo.  O,  the  gods  ! 

When  shall  we  see  again? 

Enter  Cymbeline  and  Lords. 

Post.  Alack,  the  king  ! 

Cym.  Thou  basest  thing,  avoid !  hence,  from 
my  sight ! 
If  after  this  command  thou  fraught  the  court 
With  thy  unworthiness,  thou  diest:  Away! 
Thou  art  poison  to  my  blood. 

Post.  The  gods  protect  you ! 

And  bless  the  good  remainders  of  the  court ! 
I  am  gone.  \_Exit. 

Imo.         There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

Cym.  O  disloyal  thing, 

That  should' st  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me  ! 

Imo.  I  beseech  you,  sir. 

Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  ;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath  ;  a  touch  more  rare  " 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cym.  Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

Imo.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair ;   that  way, 
past  grace. 

Cym.  That  might'st  have  had  the  sole  son  of 


my  queen 


Imo.  O  bless'd,  that  I  might  not !  I  chose  an 
eagle, 
And  did  avoid  a  puttock.'' 

Cym.  Thou  took'st  a  beggar ;  would'st  have 
made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

Imo.  No ;  I  rather  added 

A  lustre  to  it. 

Cym.  O  thou  vile  one  ! 

Imo.  Sir, 

It  is  yovcc  fault  that  I  have  lov'd  Posthumus  : 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow ;  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman  ;  overbuys  me 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Cym.  What !  art  thou  mad  ? 

hno.    Almost,    sir :    Heaven   restore   me ! — 
'Would  I  were 
A  neat-herd's  daughter!  and  my  Leonatus 
Our  neighbour  shepherd's  son ! 


Cym. 


Re-enter  Queen. 

Thou  foolish  thing  I- 


•  A  higher  feeling. 

I"  Puttuch—a  kite — a  worthless  species  of  hawk. 

191 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCFNESIII.  IV. 


They  were  again  together :  yoii  have  done 

\_To  the  Queen. 
Not  after  our  command.     Away  with  her, 
And  pen  her  vip. 

Queen.  'Beseech  your  patience  : — Peace, 

Dear  lady  daughter,  peace. — Sweet  sovereign, 
Leave  us  to  ourselves  ;  and  make  yourself  some 

comfort 
Out  of  your  hest  advice. 

Cym.  Nay,  let  her  languish 

A  drop  of  blood  a  day ;  and,  being  aged. 
Die  of  this  folly  !  lExit. 

Enter  Pisanio. 

Queen,  Fye  ! — you  must  give  way  : 

Here  is  your  servant. — How,  now,  sir?     What 
news  ? 

Pis.  My  lord  your  son  drew  on  my  master. 

Queen.  Ha ! 

No  harm,  I  trust,  is  done  ? 

Pis.  There  might  have  been, 

But  that  my  master  rather  play'd  than  fought. 
And  had  no  help  of  anger  :  they  were  parted 
By  gentlemen  at  hand. 

Queen.  I  am  very  glad  on't. 

17110.  Your  son's  my  father  s  friend  ;  he  takes 
his  part. 
To  draw  upon  an  exile  ! — O  brave  sir ! 
I  would  they  were  in  Afric  both  together ; 
Myself  by  with  a  needle,  that  I  might  prick 
The  goer  back. — Why   came   you  from   your 
master  ? 

Pis.  On  his  command:   He  would  not  suffer 
me 
To  bring  him  to  the  haven  :  left  these  notes 
Of  what  commands  I  shoidd  be  subject  to, 
When't  pleas'd  you  to  employ  me. 

Queen.  This  hath  been 

Your  faithful  servant :  I  dare  lay  mine  honour, 
He  will  remain  so. 

Pis.  I  hvimbly  thank  your  highness. 

Queen.  Pray,  walk  a  while. 

Into.  About  some  half  hour  hence, 

I  pray  you,  speak  with  me  :  yovi  shall,  at  least. 
Go  see  my  lord  aboard  :  for  this  time,  leave  me. 

l_Exeu7it. 

SCENE  III.— A  public  Place. 

Enter  Cloten  and  Two  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  I  would  advise  you  to  shift  a 
shirt;  the  violence  of  action  hath  made  you 
reek  as  a  sacrifice :  Where  air  comes  out,  air 
comes  in :  there's  none  abroad  so  wholesome  as 
that  you  vent. 
192 


CIo.  If  my  shirt  were  bloody,  then  to  shift  it. 
Have  I  hurt  him  ? 

2  Lord.  No,  faith ;  not  so  much  as  his  pa- 
tience. lAside. 

1  Lord.  Hurt  him  ?  his  body's  a  passable  car- 
cass if  he  be  not  hurt :  it  is  a  thoroughfare  for 
steel  if  it  be  not  hurt. 

2  Lord.  His  steel  was  in  debt :  it  went  o'the 
back  side  the  town.  \_Aside. 

Clo.  The  villain  would  not  stand  me. 
2  Lord.  No ;  but  he  fled  forward  still,  toward 
your  face.  \^Aside. 

1  Lord.  Stand  you !  You  have  land  enough 
of  your  own :  but  he  added  to  your  having ; 
gave  you  some  grovind. 

2  Lord.  As  many  inches  as  you  have  oceans  : 
Puppies !  lAside. 

Clo.  I  would  they  had  not  come  between  us. 

2  Lord.  So  would  I,  till  you  had  measured  how 
long  a  fool  you  were  upon  the  ground.     [^Aside. 

Clo.  And  that  she  shoidd  love  this  fellow,  and 
refuse  me ! 

2  Lord.  If  it  be  a  sin  to  make  a  true  election, 
she  is  damned.  \_Aside. 

1  Lord.  Sir,  as  I  told  you  always,  her  beauty 
and  her  brain  go  not  together :  She's  a  good 
sign,  but  I  have  seen  small  reflection  of  her  wit. 

2  Lord.  She  shines  not  upon  fools,  lest  the 
reflection  shoidd  hurt  her.  \_Aside. 

Clo.  Come,  I'll  to  my  chamber  :  'Would  there 
had  been  some  hurt  done  ! 

2  Lord.  I  wish  not  so  ;  unless  it  had  been  the 
fall  of  an  ass,  which  is  no  great  hurt.       [Aside. 

Clo.  You'll  go  with  us  1 

1  Lord.   I'll  attend  your  lordship. 
Clo.  Nay,  come,  let's  go  together. 

2  Lord.  Well,  my  lord.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Imogen  and  Pisanio. 

Lmo.  I  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores 
o'the  haven. 
And  question'dst  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  I  not  have  it,  'twere  a  paper  lost, 
As  offer'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  It  was,  '  His  queen,  his  queen  ! ' 

Lmo.  Then  wav'd  his  handkerchief? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam. 

Lmo.  Senseless  linen  I  happier  therein  than  I ! 
And  that  was  all  1 

Pis.  No,  madam ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  his  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


The  deck,  with  glove  or  hat  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on. 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  should'st  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  aftei--eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did. 

Imo.  I  would  have  broke  mine  eye-strings  ; ' 

crack "d  them,  but 
To  look  upon  him  ;  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle  : 
Nay,  follow'd  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air ;  and  then 
Have  turn'd  mine  eye,  and  wept. — But,  good 

Pisanio, 
When  shall  we  hear  from  him  ? 

Pis.  Be  assur'd,  madam, 

With  his  next  vantage.* 

Imo.  I  did  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say  :  ere  I  could  tell  him 
How  I  would  think  on  him,  at  certain  hours, 
Such  thoughts,  and  such;  or  I  could  make  him 

swear 
The  shes  of  Italy  shoidd  not  betray 
Mine  interest  and  his  honour ;  or  have  charg'd 

him. 
At  the  sixth  hour  of  morn,  at  noon,  at  midnight. 
To  encoimter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him ;  or  ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Betwixt  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father. 
And,  like  the  tyrannous  breathing  of  the  north. 
Shakes  all  oiu-  buds  from  growing.'' 

Enter  a  Lady. 
Lady.  The  queen,  madam. 

Desires  your  highness'  company. 

Imo.  Those  things  I  bid  you  do  get  them  de- 
spatch'd. — 
I  will  attend  the  queen. 

Pis.  Madam,  I  shall.     \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Rome.     An  Apartment  in  Phi- 
lario's  House. 

Enter  Philario,  Iachimo,  and  a  Frenchman."^ 

lach.  Believe  it,  sir :  I  have  seen  him  in  Bri- 
tain :  he  was  then  of  a  crescent  note ;  expected 

*  Vantage — opportunity. 

•■  So  in  the  18th  Sonnet — 

"  Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May." 

"  In  the  stage-directiou  of  the  original,  we  have  "  a  Dutch- 
man and  a  Spaniard"  brought  in,  as  well  as  a  Frenchman. 
But  these  characters  are  mute;  and  may  be  therefore  omitted 
liere,  and  in  the  list  of  persons  represented.  It  was  no 
doubt  the  intention  to  sliow  that  the  foolish  wager  of  Posthu- 
mus  was  made  amidst  strangers  who  hud  resorted  to  Rome. 


to  prove  so  worthy  as  since  he  hath  been  allowed 
the  name  of:  but  I  could  then  have  looked  on 
him  without  the  help  of  admiration ;  though  the 
catalogue  of  his  endowments  had  been  tabled 
by  his  side,  and  I  to  peruse  him  by  items. 

Phi.  You  speak  of  him  when  he  was  less  fur- 
nished, than  now  he  is,  with  that  which  makes 
him  both  without  and  within. 

French.  I  have  seen  him  in  France :  we  had 
very  many  there  could  behold  the  sun  with  as 
finn  eyes  as  he. 

lach.  This  matter  of  marrying  his  king's 
daughter,  (wherein  he  must  be  weighed  rather 
by  her  value  than  his  own,)  woi'ds  him,  I  doubt 
not,  a  great  deal  fi"om  the  matter. 

French.  And  then  his  banishment — 

lach.  Ay,  and  the  approbation  of  those  that 
weep  this  lamentable  divorce,  under  her  colours, 
are  wonderfully  to  extend  him ;  be  it  but  to  for- 
tify her  judgment,  which  else  an  easy  battery 
might  lay  flat,  for  taking  a  beggar  without  less 
quality.^  But  how  comes  it  he  is  to  sojourn 
with  you?     How  creeps  acquaintance? 

Phi.  His  father  and  I  were  soldiers  together; 
to  whom  I  have  been  often  bound  for  no  less 
than  my  life  : — 

Enter  Posthumus. 

Here  comes  the  Briton :  Let  him  be  so  enter- 
tained amongst  you,  as  suits,  with  gentlemen  of 
your  knowing,  to  a  stranger  of  his  quality. — I 
beseech  you  all,  be  better  known  to  this  gentle- 
man, whom  I  commend  to  you  as  a  noble  friend 
of  mine  :  How  worthy  he  is  I  will  leave  to  ap- 
pear hereafter,  rather  than  story  him  in  his  own 
hearing. 

French.  Sir,  we  have  known  together  in  Or- 
leans. 

Post.  Since  when  I  have  been  debtor  to  you 
for  courtesies,  which  I  will  be  ever  to  pay,  and 
yet  pay  still. 

French.  Sir,  you  o'er-rate  my  poor  kindness : 
I  was  glad  I  did  atone''  my  countryman  and 
you ;  it  had  been  pity  you  should  have  been 
put  together  with  so  mortal  a  purpose  as  then 
each  bore,  upon  importance  •=  of  so  slight  and 
trivial  a  nature. 

=  Less  qualify.  So  the  folio.  It  has  been  corrected  into 
mWB  quality ;  but  we  doubt  the  propriety  of  the  change. 
Posthumus  is  spoken  of  by  all  as  one  of  high  qualifications — 
and  he  is  presently  introduced  as  "  a  stranger  of  his  quality." 
He  was  bred  as  Imogen's  "  playfellow,"  and  therefore  cannot 
be  spoken  of  as  a  low  man — "  without  more  quality."  As 
this  play  was  first  printed,  like  many  others,  after  Shak- 
spere's  lieath,  it  is  probable  that  it  contains  some  typogra- 
pliical  errors.  We  do  not  feel  warranted  in  altering  the  text, 
or  we  would  read,  "  for  taking  a  beggar  without  his  quality," 
— a  beggar  who  does  not  follow  the  occupation  of  a  beggar. 

^  Atune — to  make  at  une.        '  Importance — import,  matter. 

193 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Post.  By  your  pardon,  sir,  I  was  then  a  young 
traveller :  rather  shunned  to  go  even  with  what 
I  heard,  than  in  my  every  action  to  be  guided 
by  others'  experiences :  but,  upon  my  mended 
judgment,  (if  I  offend  not"  to  say  it  is  mended,) 
my  quarrel  was  not  altogether  slight. 

French.  'Faith,  yes,  to  be  put  to  the  arbitre- 
ment  of  swords ;  and  by  such  two  that  would, 
by  all  likelihood,  have  confounded  one  the 
other,  or  have  fallen  both. 

lack.  Can  we,  with  manners,  ask  what  was 
the  difference? 

French.  Safely,  I  think  :  'twas  a  contention 
in  public,  which  may,  without  contradiction, 
•uffer  the  report.  It  was  much  like  an  argu- 
ment that  fell  out  last  night,  where  each  of  us 
fell  in  praise  of  our  country  mistresses ;  This 
gentleman  at  that  time  vouching,  (and  upon 
warrant  of  bloody  affirmation,)  his  to  be  more 
fair,  virtuous,  wise,  chaste,  constant-qualified, 
and  less  attemptible,  than  any  the  rarest  of  our 
ladies  in  France. 

lacli.  That  lady  is  not  now  living ;  or  this 
gentleman's  opinion,  by  this,  worn  out. 

Post.  She  holds  her  virtue  still,  and  I  my 
mind. 

lach.  You  must  not  so  far  prefer  her  'fore 
ours  of  Italy. 

Post.  Being  so  far  provoked  as  I  was  in 
France,  I  would  abate  her  nothing ;  though  I 
profess  myself  her  adorer,  not  her  friend. 

lacli.  As  fair,  and  as  good,  (a  kind  of  hand- 
in-hand  comparison,)  had  been  something  too 
fair,  and  too  good,  for  any  lady  in  Britany.  If 
she  went  before  others  I  have  seen,  as  that  dia- 
mond of  yours  outlustres  many  I  have  beheld, 
I  could  not  but  believe  she  excelled  many : '' 
but  I  have  not  seen  the  most  precious  diamond 
that  is,  nor  you  the  lady. 

Post.  I  praised  her  as  I  rated  her :  so  do  I 
my  stone. 

lach.  What  do  you  esteem  it  at? 

Post.  More  than  the  world  enjoys. 

lach.  Either  your  unparagoned  mistress  is 
dead,  or  she's  outprized  by  a  trifle. 

Post.  You  are  mistaken :  the  one  may  be 
sold,  or  given,  if  there  were  wealth  enough  for 
the  purchase,  or  merit  for  the  gift :  the  other 
is  not  a  thing  for  sale,  and  only  the  gift  of  the 
gods. 

lach.  Which  the  gods  have  given  you? 

•  'Nut  is  omitted  in  the  original. 

•■  The  ))assage  stands  in  tlie  folio — "  I  could  not  believe 
she  excel  I'd  many."  The  reasoning  is  then  inconclusive ;  but 
the  introduction  of  the  word  huX,  by  Malone,  gets  over  the 
difficulty. 

194 


Post.  Which,  by  their  graces,  I  will  keep. 

lach.  You  may  wear  her  in  title  yours  :  but 
you  know  strange  fowl  light  upon  neighbouring 
ponds.  Your  ring  may  be  stolen  too :  so,  your 
brace  of  unprizeable  estimations,  the  one  is  but 
frail,  and  the  other  casual ;  a  cunning  thief,  or 
a  that-way-accomplished  courtier,  would  hazard 
the  winning  both  of  first  and  last. 

Post.  Your  Italy  contains  none  so  accom- 
plished a  courtier  to  convince*  the  honour  of 
my  mistress ;  if,  in  the  holding  or  the  loss  of 
that,  you  term  her  frail.  I  do  nothing  doubt 
you  have  store  of  thieves ;  notwithstanding  I 
fear  not  my  ring. 

Phi.  Let  us  leave  here,  gentlemen. 

Post.  Sir,  with  all  my  heart.  This  worthy 
signior,  I  thank  him,  makes  no  stranger  of  me ; 
we  are  familiar  at  first. 

lach.  With  five  times  so  much  conversation 
I  should  get  ground  of  your  fair  mistress :  make 
her  go  back,  even  to  the  yielding;  had  I  admit- 
tance and  ojiportunity  to  friend. 

Post.  No,  no. 

lach.  I  dare,  thereupon,  pawn  the  moiety  of 
my  estate  to  yoiu*  ring ;  which,  in  my  opinion, 
o'ervalues  it  something:  But  I  make  my  wager 
rather  against  your  confidence  than  her  repu- 
tation :  and,  to  bar  your  offence  herein  too,  I 
durst  attempt  it  against  any  lady  in  the  world. 

Post.  You  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too  bold 
a  persuasion ;  and  I  doubt  not  you  sustain  what 
you're  worthy  of  by  your  attempt. 

lach.  What's  that  ? 

Post.  A  repulse :  Though  your  attempt,  as 
you  call  it,  deserve  more, — a  pvmishment  too. 

Phil.  Gentlemen,  enough  of  this:  it  came  in 
too  suddenly ;  let  it  die  as  it  was  born,  and,  I 
pray  you,  be  better  acquainted. 

lach.  'Would  I  had  put  my  estate,  and  my 
neighbour's,  on  the  approbation  of  what  I  have 
spoke. 

Post.  What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail  ? 

lach.  Yours ;  whom  in  constancy  you  think 
stands  so  safe.  I  will  lay  you  ten  thousand 
ducats  to  your  ring,  that,  commend  me  to  the 
court  where  your  lady  is,  with  no  more  advan- 
tage than  the  opportunity  of  a  second  confer- 
ence, and  I  will  bring  from  thence  that  honour 
of  hers  which  you  imagine  so  reserved. 

Post.  I  will  wage  against  your  gold,  gold  to 
it:  my  ring  I  hold  dear  as  my  finger;  'tis  part 
of  it. 

lach.  You  are  a  friend,  and  therein  the  wiser. 
If  you  buy  ladies'  flesh  at  a  million  a  dram,  you 

»  Convince — overcome. 


Act  I.J 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCFNK    VI. 


cannot  preserve  it  from  tainting :  But,  I  see  you 
have  some  religion  in  yon,  that  you  fear. 

Post.  This  is  but  a  custom  in  your  tongue ; 
you  bear  a  graver  purpose,  I  hope. 

lach.  I  am  the  master  of  my  speeches ;  and 
would  undergo  what's  sjjokcn,  I  swear. 

Post.  Will  you? — I  shall  but  lend  my  diamond 
till  your  return : — Let  there  be  covenants  drawn 
between  us :  My  mistress  exceeds  in  goodness  the 
liugeness  of  your  unworthy  thinking :  I  dare  you 
to  this  match:  here's  my  ring. 

Phi.  I  will  have  it  no  lay. 

lach.  By  the  gods  it  is  one: — If  I  bring  you 
no  sufficient  testimony  that  I  have  enjoyed  the 
dearest  bodily  part  of  your  mistress,  my  ten 
thousand  ducats  are  yours;  so  is  your  diamond 
too.  If  I  come  off,  and  leave  her  in  such 
honour  as  you  have  trust  in,  she  your  jewel, 
this  j'our  jewel,  and  my  gold  are  yours  : — pro- 
vided I  have  your  commendation  for  my  more 
free  entertainment. 

Post.  I  embrace  these  conditions;  let  us  have 
articles  betwixt  us : — only,  thus  far  you  shall 
answer.  If  you  make  your  voyage  upon  her, 
and  give  me  directly  to  understand  you  have 
prevailed,  I  am  no  further  your  enemy:  she  is 
not  worth  our  debate.  If  she  remain  imse- 
duced,  (you  not  making  it  appear  otherwise,) 
for  your  ill  opinion,  and  the  assault  you  have 
made  to  her  chastity,  you  shall  answer  me  with 
your  sword. 

lach.  Your  hand;  a  covenant:  We  will  have 
these  things  set  down  by  lawfid  counsel,  and 
straight  away  for  Britain ;  lest  the  bargain 
should  catch  cold,  and  starve.  I  will  fetch  my 
gold,  and  have  our  two  wagers  recorded. 

Post.  Agreed. 

\_Exeunt  Posthumus  and  Iachimo. 

French.  Will  this  hold,  think  you? 

Phi.  Signior  Iachimo  will  not  from  it.  Pray, 
let  us  follow  'em.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— Britain.     A  Room  in  Cymbe- 
line's  Palace. 

Enter  Queen,  Ladies,  and  Cornelius. 

Queen.  Whiles  yet  the  dew's  on  groimd,  gather 
those  flowers  ;^ 
Make  haste:  Who  has  the  note  of  them? 

1  Ladi/.  I,  madam. 

Queen.  Despatch.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Now,   master  doctor,  have  you  brought  those 

drugs? 

Cor.  Pleaseth  your  highness,  ay:  here  they 

are,  madam :    [Presentinc/  a  small  box. 


But  I  beseech  your  grace,  (without  offence — 
My  conscience  bids  me  ask,)  wherefore  you  have 
Commanded  of  me  these  most  poisonous  com- 
pounds. 
Which  are  the  movers  of  a  languishing  death ; 
But,  though  slow,  deadly? 

Queen.  I  wonder,  doctor, 

Thou  ask'st  me  such  a  question :  Have  I  not  been 
Thy  pupil  long?  Hast  thou  not  learn'd  me  how 
To  make  perfumes?  distil?  preserve?  yea,  so. 
That  our  great  king  himself  doth  woo  me  oft 
For   my  confections  ?      Having   thus   far  pro- 
ceeded, 
(Unless  thou  think'st  me  devilish,)  is't  not  meet 
That  I  did  amplify  my  judgment  in 
Other  conclusions?*     I  will  try  the  forces 
Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 
We  count  not  worth  the  hanging,   (but  none 

human,) 
To  try  the  vigour  of  them,  and  apply 
AUayments  to  their  act ;  and  by  them  gather 
Their  several  virtues,  and  effects. 

Cor.  Your  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  make  hard  your 

heart :  ^ 
Besides,  the  seeing  these  effects  will  be 
Both  noisome  and  infectious. 

Queen.  O,  content  thee. 

Enter  Pisanio. 
Here  comes  a  flattering  rascal ;  upon  him 

[Aside. 
Will  I  first  work :  he's  for  his  master. 
And  enemy  to  my  son. — How  now,  Pisanio? 
Doctor,  your  service  for  this  time  is  ended; 
Take  your  own  way. 

Cor.  I  do  suspect  you,  madam ; 

But  you  shall  do  no  harm.  [Aside. 

Queen.  Hark  thee,  a  word. — 

[To  Pisanio. 

Cor.  [Aside.']    I  do  not  like  her.     She  doth 
think  she  has 
Strange  lingering  poisons :  I  do  know  her  spirit, 
And  will  not  trust  one  of  her  malice  with 
A  drug  of  such  damn'd  nature  :  Those  she  has 
Will  stupify  and  dull  the  sense  awhile : 
Which  first,  perchance,  she'll  prove  on  cats  and 

dogs; 
Then  afterward  up  higher  ;  but  there  is 
No  danger  in  what  show  of  death  it  makes, 
More  than  the  locking  up  the  spirits  a  time, 
To  be  more  fresh,  reviving.     She  is  fool'd 
With  a  most  false  effect ;  and  I  the  truer 
So  to  be  false  with  her. 


"  Crmcttisimis — experiments. 


195 


Art  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  VII. 


Queen.  No  further  service,  doctor, 

Until  I  send  for  thee. 

Cor.  I  hiunbly  take  my  leave. 

[Exit. 

Queen.  Weeps  she  still,  say'st  thou?     Dost 

thou  think  in  time 

She  will  not  quench ;  and  let  instructions  enter 

Where  folly  now  possesses  1     Do  thou  work : 

When  thou  shalt  bring  me  word  she  loves  my 

son, 
I'll  tell  thee,  on  the  instant,  thou  art  then 
As  great  as  is  thy  master :  greater ;  for 
His  fortunes  all  lie  speechless,  and  his  name 
Is  at  last  gasp :  Return  he  cannot,  nor 
Continue  where  he  is :  to  shift  his  being 
Is  to  exchange  one  misery  with  another ; 
And  every  day  that  comes,  comes  to  decay 
A  day's  woi-k  in  him  :  What  shalt  thou  expect, 
To  be  depender  on  a  thing  that  leans, — 
Who  cannot  be  new  built,  nor  has  no  friends, 

[^The  Queen  (hojjs  a  box:  Pisanio 
takes  it  up. 
So  much  as  but  to  prop  him  ? — Thou  tak'st  up 
Thou  know'st  not  what ;  but  take  it  for  thy  la- 
bour : 
It  is  a  tiling  I  made,  which  hath  the  king 
Five  times  redeem'd  from  death  :  I  do  not  know 
What  is  more  cordial : — Nay,  I  prithee,  take  it; 
It  is  an  earnest  of  a  further  good 
That  I  mean  to  thee.     Tell  thy  mistress  how 
The  case  stands  with  her ;  do 't,  as  from  thyself. 
Think  what  a  chance  thou  changest  on ;    but 

think 
Thou  hast  thy  mistress  still, — to  boot,  my  son. 
Who  shall  take  notice  of  thee :  I'll  move  the 

king 
To  any  shape  of  thy  preferment,  such 
As  thou'lt  desire ;  and  then  myself,  I  chiefly, 
That  set  thee  on  to  this  desert,  am  bound 
To  load  thy  merit  richly.     Call  my  women  : 
Think  on  my  words.     \_Exit  Pisa.] — A  sly  and 

constant  knave ; 
Not  to  be  shak'd  :  the  agent  for  his  master ; 
And  the  remembrancer  of  her,  to  hold 
The  hand  fast  to  her  lord. — I  have  given  him 

that, 
Which,  if  he  take,  shall  quite  unpeople  her 
Of  liegers  for  her  sweet;  and  which  she,  after, 
Except  she  bend  her  humour,  shall  be  assur'd 

Re-enter  Pisanio  and  Ladies. 
To  taste  of  too. — So,  so ; — well  done,  well  done : 
The  violets,  cowslips,  and  the  primroses, 
Bear  to  my  closet : — Fare  thee  well,  Pisanio ; 
Think  on  my  words. 

[^Exeunt  Queen  and  Ladies. 
196 


Pis.  And  shall  do : 

But  when  to  my  good  lord  I  prove  untrue, 
I'll  choke  myself;  there's  all  I'll  do  for  you. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII. — Another  Room  iii  the  Palace. 

Enter  Imogen. 

Imo.  A  father  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false ; 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady. 
That  hath  her  husband  banish'd ; — O,  that  hus- 
band! 
My  supreme   crown   of  grief!    and   those  re- 
peated 
Vexations  of  it !  Had  I  been  thief-stolen, 
As  my  two  brothers,  happy  !  but  most  miserable 
Is  the  desire  that's  glorious :   Blessed  be  those, 
How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
Which  seasons'"  comfort. — Who  may  this  be  ? 
Fye! 

Enter  Pisanio  and  Iachimo. 

Pis.  Madam,  a  noble  gentleman  of  Rome, 
Comes  from  my  lord  with  letters. 

lach.  Change  you,  madam? 

The  worthy  Leonatus  is  in  safety, 
And  greets  your  highness  dearly. 

[Presents  a  letter. 

Imo.  Thanks,  good  sir  : 

You  are  kindly  welcome. 

lach.  All  of  her  that  is  out  of  door,  most  rich  ! 

[Aside. 
If  she  be  furnish'd  with  a  mind  so  rare, 
She  is  alone  the  Arabian  bird ;  and  I 
Have  lost  the  wager.     Boldness  be  my  friend ! 
Arm  me,  audacity,  from  head  to  foot ! 
Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall  flying  fight ;  * 
Rather,  directly  fly. 

Imo.    [Reads.}    '  He  is  one  of  tlie  noblest  note,  to  whose 
kindnesses  I  am  most  infinitely  tied.      Reflect  upon   him 

accordingly,  as  you  value  your  trust'' 

'  Leonatus.' 

So  far  I  read  aloud  : 

But  even  the  very  middle  of  my  heart 

Is  warm'd  by  the  rest,  and  takes  it  thankfully. 

You  are  as  welcome,  worthy  sir,  as  I 

Have  words  to  bid  you ;  and  shall  find  it  so 

In  all  that  I  can  do. 


>  Seasons  is  a.  \eTh.  The  mean  have  their /wnesf,  homely 
wills -(opposed  to  the  desire  that's  glorious) — and  that  cir- 
cumstance gives  a  relish  to  comfort. 

*>  Trust.  Imogen  breaks  oil'  in  reading  the  letter  of  Leo- 
natus. That  which  is  addressed  to  her  in  the  tenderness  of 
affection  is  not  "  read  aloud."  Unmindful  of  this,  the  p;is- 
sage  has  been  altered  into  "  Reflect  upon  him  accordingly,  as 
you  value  your  truest  Leonatus."  The  signature  is  separated 
from  the  word  which  has  been  changed  to  truest,  by  tlie  pas- 
sage which  Imogen  glances  at  in  thankful  silence. 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELTNE. 


fScKNK     VII. 


lack.  Tlianks,  fairest  huly. — 

What !  are  men  mad  ?     Hatli  nature  given  them 

eyes 
To  see  this  vaulted  arch,  and  the  rich  crop 
Of  sea  and  land,  which  can  distinguish  'twixt 
The  fiery  orhs  above,  and  the  twinn'd  stones 
Upon  the  number'd  beach  ? "  and  can  we  not 
Partition  make  with  spectacles  so  precious 
'Twixt  fair  and  foul  ? 

Tmo.  What  makes  your  admiration  ? 

lach.  It  cannot  be  i'the  eye;  for  apes  and 
monkeys, 
'Twixt  two  such  shes,  woiUd  chatter  this  way 

and 
Contemn  with  mows  the  other :  Nor  i'  the  judg- 
ment; 
For  idiots,  in  this  case  of  favour,  would 
Be  wisely  definite :  Nor  i'  the  appetite  ; 
Sluttery,  to  such  neat  excellence  oppos'd, 
Should  make  desire  vomit  emptiness,  •* 
Not  so  allur'd  to  feed. 

Imo.  What  is  the  matter,  trow  ? 

lack.  The  cloyed  will, 

(That  satiate  yet  unsatisfied  desire. 
That  tub  both  fill'd  and  running,)  ravening  first 
The  lamb,  longs  after  for  the  garbage. 

Imo.  What,  dear  sir. 

Thus  raps*-'  you?     Are  you  well? 

lach.  Thanks,  madam ;  weU : — ^"Beseech  you, 
sir,  desL'ie  \To  Pisanio. 

My  man's  abode  where  I  did  leave  him :  he 
Is  strange  and  peevish. 

Pis.  I  was  going,  sir, 

To  give  him  welcome.  {Exit  Pisanio. 

Tmo.  Continues  well  my  lord?     His  health, 
'beseech  you? 

lacli.  Well,  madam. 

Imo.  Is  he  dispos'd  to  mirth  ?     I  hope  he  is. 

lach.  Exceeding  pleasant;   none   a  stranger 
there 
So  meny  and  so  gamesome :  he  is  call'd 
The  Briton  reveller. 

Imo.  When  he  was  here 

He  did  incline  to  sadness;  and  oft-times 
Not  knowing  why. 

lach.  I  never  saw  him  sad. 

There  is  a  Frenchman  his  companion,  one 
An   eminent   monsiem*,   that,   it   seems,   much 
loves 

»  Tlie  stones  of  the  beach  are  each  so  like  the  other  that 
the  epithet  tit'inn'd  is  appropriate.  \i  number' d  be  tlie  right 
word  it  must  be  taken  in  the  sense  of  numerous,  numberous. 
Theobald  read  "  tli  unnumbered  beach." 

^  Dr.  Johnson  has  given  an  explanation  of  this  passage, 
which  is  an  amusing  specimen  of  bis  Ltxipluinir  style:  "  to 
feel  the  convulsions  of  eructation  without  plenitude. " 

'  Raps  you — transports  you.  We  are  familiar  with  the 
participle  rapt,  but  this  form  of  the  verb  is  uucoiiimun. 

Tkaoedies.— Vol..  I.      2  C 


A  Gallian  girl  at  home  :  he  furnaces 

The   tliick    sighs   from   him ;    whiles   the  jolly 

Briton 
(Your  lord,  I  mean)  laughs  from  's  free  lungs, 

cries,  '  O ! 
Can  my  sides  hold,  to  think  that  man, — who 

knows. 
By  history,  report,  or  his  own  proof, 
What  woman  is,  yea,  what  she  cannot  choose 
But  musit  be, — will  his  free  hours  languish  for 
Assured  bondage  ? ' 

Imo.  Will  my  lord  say  so  ? 

lach.  Ay,  madam  ;  with  his  eyes  in  flood  with 
laughter. 
It  is  a  recreation  to  be  by, 
And   hear  him    mock    the   Frenchman :     But, 

heavens  know. 
Some  men  are  much  to  blame. 

Imo.  Not  he,  I  hope. 

lach.  Not  he  :  But  yet  heaven's  bounty  to- 
wards him  might 
Be  us'd  more  thankfully.     In  himself,  'tis  much ; 
In  you, — which  I  account  his,  beyond  all  ta- 
lents,— 
Whilst  I  am  bound  to  wonder,  I  am  bound 
To  pity  too. 

Imo.  What  do  you  pity,  sir  ? 

lach.  Two  creatures,  heartily. 

Imo.  Am  I  one,  sir  ? 

You  look  on  me.   What  wreck  discern  youin  me 
Deserves  your  pity  ? 

lach.  Lamentable  !     What ! 

To  hide  me  from  the  radiant  sim,  and  solace 
r  the  dungeon  by  a  snuff'? 

Imo.  I  pray  you,  sir, 

Deliver  with  more  openness  your  answers 
To  my  demands.     Why  do  you  pity  me  ? 

lach.  That  others  do, 

I  was  about  to  say,  enjoy  your But 

It  is  an  office  of  the  gods  to  venge  it. 
Not  mine  to  speak  on't. 

Imo.  Y'^ou  do  seem  to  know 

Something  of  me,  or  what  concerns  me.     'Pray 

you, 
(Since  doubting  things  go  ill  often  hurts  more 
Than  to  be  sure  they  do :  For  certainties 
Either  are  past  remedies ;  or,  timely  knowing, 
The  remedy  then  born,)  discover  to  me 
What  both  you  spur  and  stop. 

lach.  Had  I  this  cheek, 

To  bathe  my  lips  upon  ;  this  hand,  whose  toucli, 
Whose  every  touch,  would  force  the  feeler's  sovU 
To  the  oath  of  loyalty ;  this  object,  which 
Takes  prisoner  the  wild  motion  of  mine  eye, 
Fixing  it  only  here  :  shoidd  I  (damn'd  then) 

197 


I-] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SrKNE  VII. 


Slaver  with  lips  as  common  as  the  stairs 
That  mount  the  Capitol :  join  gripes  with  hands 
Made  hard  with  hourly  falsehood  (falsehood,  as 
With  labour) ;  then,  by-peeping 'i  in  an  eye. 
Base  and  unlustrous  as  the  smoky  light 
That's  fed  with  stinking  tallow ;  it  were  fit. 
That  all  the  plagues  of  hell  shoidd  at  one  time 
Encounter  such  revolt. 

I  mo.  My  lord,  I  fear, 

Has  forgot  Britain. 

lack.  And  himself.     Not  I, 

Inclin'd  to  this  intelligence,  pronounce 
The  beggary  of  his  change ;  but  'tis  your  graces 
That,  from  my  mutest  conscience,  to  my  tongue. 
Charms  this  report  out. 

Jmo.  Let  me  hear  no  more. 

lacli.  O  dearest  soul !  your  cause  doth  strike 
my  heart 
With  pity,  that  doth  make  me  sick.     A  lady 
So  fair,  and  fasten'd  to  an  empery, 
Would  make  the  gi-eat'st  king  double !    To  be 

partner'd 
With  tomboys,  *>  hir'd  with  that  self-exhibition 
Which  your  own   coffers  yield!    with   diseas'd 

ventures. 
That  play  with  all  infirmities  for  gold 
Which  rottenness  can  lend  nature !  such  boil'd 

stuif, 
As  well  might  poison  poison  !     Be  reveng'd : 
Or  she  that  bore  you  was  no  queen,  and  you 
Recoil  from  your  great  stock. 

Inio.  Reveng'd ! 

How  should  I  be  reveng'd?     If  this  be  true, 
(As  I  have  svich  a  heart  that  both  mine  ears 
Must  not  in  haste  abuse,)  if  it  be  true. 
How  shall  I  be  reveng'd? 

lach.  Should  he  make  me 

Live  like  Diana's  priest, «  betwixt  cold  sheets, 
Whiles  he  is  vaulting  variable  ramps, 
In  your  despite,  upon  your  purse  ?     Revenge  it. 
I  dedicate  myself  to  your  sweet  pleasure ; 
More  noble  than  that  runagate  to  your  bed  ; 
And  will  continue  fast  to  your  affection, 
Still  close,  as  sure. 

Into.  What  ho,  Pisanio  ! 

lack.  Let  me  my  service  tender  on  your  lips. 

Imo.  Away! — I  do  condemn  mine  ears  that 
have 
So  long  attended  thee. — If  thou  wert  honoiu-able, 

•  By-peeping— so  the  origiiKil.  Johnson  changtd  \i\o"  lie 
p:'fpiiig;"  but  it  appoiirs  to  us  tluit  "  6y-peipiug"  is  clau- 
deslinuly  pcejiing. 

^  Vfrsiegau  thus  defines  a  tumboy :  "  Ti.mhc,  to  dance. 
Tumhed,  diiuced.  Ileieof  we  yel  call  a  wench  that  skippelh 
or  leapeth  like  a  boy,  a  tomhvy." 

"  Diana's  priest.  In  Pericles  we  have  the  expression,  used 
by  D.aua,  ol  "  maiden  priests." 

IDS 


Thou  would'st  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such   an   end    thou    seek'st;    as   base,   as 

strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report,  as  thou  from  honour ;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady,  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike. — What,  ho!  Pisanio! — 
The  king  my  father  shall  be  made  acquainted 
Of  thy  assault ;  if  he  shall  think  it  fit, 
A  saucy  stranger,  in  his  court,  to  mart 
As  in  a  Romish  stew,  and  to  expound 
His  beastly  mind  to  us ;  he  hath  a  court 
He  little  cares  for,  and  a  daughter  whom 
He  not  respects  at  all. — What  ho,  Pisanio ! 

lack.  O  happy  Leonatus  !  I  may  say  : 
The  credit  that  thy  lady  hath  of  thee 
Deserves  thy  trust ;  and  thy  most  perfect  good- 
ness 
Her  assur'd  credit ! — Blessed  live  you  long  ! 
A  lady  to  the  worthiest  sir,  that  ever 
Country  call'd  his  !  and  you  his  mistress,  only 
For  the   most  worthiest  fit !       Give   me   your 

pardon. 
I  have  spoke  this,  to  know  if  your  affiance 
Were  deeply  rooted ;  and  shall  make  your  lord 
That  which  he  is,  new  o'er:  And  he  is  one 
The  truest  manner'd  ;  such  a  holy  witch, 
That  he  enchants  societies  imto  him : 
Half  all  men's  hearts  are  his. 

Imo.  You  make  amends. 

lack.  He  sits  'mongst  men,  like  a  descended 
god: 
He  hath  a  kind  of  honour  sets  him  off. 
More  than  a  mortal  seeming.     Be  not  angry. 
Most  mighty  princess,  that  I  have  adventur'd 
To  try  your  taking,  a  false  report  which  hath 
Honour 'd  with  confirmation  your  great  judgment 
In  the  election  of  a  sir  so  rare. 
Which  you  know,  cannot  err :  The  love  I  bear 

him 
Made  me  to  fan  you  thus ;  but  the  gods  made 

yon. 
Unlike  all  others,  chaffless.     Pray,  your  pardon. 

Imo.  All's  well,  sir :  Take  my  power  i'the  court 
for  yours. 

lacIi.  My  humble  thanks.    I  had  almost  forgot 
To  entreat  yoiu'  grace  but  in  a  small  request. 
And  yet  of  moment  too,  for  it  concerns 
Your  lord ;  myself,  and  other  noble  friends, 
Are  partners  in  the  business. 

Imo.  Pray,  what  is't  ? 

lack.  Some  dozen  Romans  of  us,   and  your 
lord, 
(The  best  feather  of  oiu*  wing,)  have  mingled 
sums, 


Act  I.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  VII. 


To  buy  a  present  for  the  emperor ; 

Which  I,  tlie  factor  for  the  rest,  have  done 

In   France :    'Tis   phite,    of  rare   device ;    and 

jewels, 
Of  rich  and  exquisite  form  ;  their  vahies  great; 
And  I  am  something  cm-ious,  being  strange. 
To  have  them  in  safe  stowage.     May  it  please 

you 
To  take  them  in  protection  ? 

Imo.  Willingly ; 

And  pawn  mine  honoiu-  for  their  safety  :  since 
My  lord  hath  interest  in  them,  I  will  keep  them 
In  my  bed-chamber. 

lack.  They  are  in  a  trunk, 

Attended  by  my  men  :  I  will  make  bold 
To  send  them  to  you,  only  for  this  night. 
I  must  aboard  to-morrow. 


Imo.  O,  no,  no. 

lack.  Yes,   I  beseech  ;  or   I    shall  short  my 
word. 
By  length'ning  my  retui'n.     From  Gallia 
I  cross'd  the  seas  on  purpose,  and  on  promise 
To  see  your  grace. 

Imo.  I  thank  yovi  for  your  pains ; 

But  not  away  to-morrow  ! 

lack.  O,  I  must,  madam  : 

Therefore,  I  shall  beseech  you,  if  yon  please 
To  greet  yoiu-  lord  with  writing,  do't  to-night : 
I  have  outstood  my  time  ;  which  is  material 
To  the  tender  of  our  present. 

Imo.  I  will  write. 

Send  yom-  trunk  to  me ;  it  shall  safe  be  kejit, 
And  truly  yielded  you :  You  are  very  welcome. 

\_Exeu7it. 


[This  diamond  was  my  mother's:  take  it,  heart.] 


199 


ILLUSTKATIONS    OF    ACT    I. 


^  Scene  IV. — "  /  wMihl  have  broke  mine  eye- 
strin'js,''''  Sfc. 

In  Arthur  Gokling's  Translation  of  Ovid's  Meta- 
morphoses (1567)  there  is  a  description  which  niiglit 
have  suggested  to  Shakspere  this  beautiful  passage : 

"  She  lifting  up  her  watery  eyes  beheld  her  liusband  stand 
Upon  tlie  hatches  making  signs  by  bepkiiig  with  his  li-ind  : 
Ami  she  made  signs  to  him  again.     And  after  that  the  laud 
Was  far  removed  from  the  ship,  and  that  the  sight  began 
To  be  unable  to  discern  the  face  of  any  man, 
As  long  as  ere  she  could  she  look'd  upon  the  rowing  keel. 
And  when  she  could  no  longer  time  for  distance  ken  it  weel 
Slie  looked  still  upon  the  sails  that  flashed  with  the  wind 
Upon  the  mast.     And  when  she  could  the  sails  no  longer 

find, 
Slie  gat  her  to  her  empty  bed  with  s  id  and  sorry  heart." 

*  Scene  A^I. — "  JVkiles  yet  the  dew  'a  on  grotind, 
guther  th^ise Jlowers" 

The  Queen,  distilling  herbs  for  wicked  purposes, 
is  a  striking  contrast,  to  the  benevolent  Friar  in  Ro- 
meo and  Juliet.  Shakspere  has  beautifully  indi- 
cated the  philosophy  of  the  use  or  abuse  by  man 
of  Nature's  productions,  in  the  Friar's  soliloejuy  : — 

"  For  nought  so  vile  that  on  the  earth  doth  live, 
15ut  to  the  earth  some  special  good  doth  give ; 
Nor  aught  so  good,  tint,  strain 'd  from  that  fair  use. 
Revolts  from  true  birth,  stumbling  on  abuse." 

^  Scene  YI.  "  Yo?ir  highness 

Shall  from  this  practice  but  moke  hard  your  heart  J^ 

Dr.  Johnson,  in  that  spirit  of  kindness  which  es- 
sentially belonged  to  his  nature,  remarks  upon  tliis 
passage : — "  The  thought  would  probably  have  been 
more  amplified  had  our  author  lived  to  be  shocked 
with  such  experiments  as  have  been  published  in 
later  time.s  by  a  race  of  men  who  liave  practised 
tortures  without  pity,  and  related  them  without 
shame,  and  are  yet  sullered  to  erect  their  heads 
among  human  beings."     We  are  by  no  means  sure, 


however,  that  Shakspere  meant  to  apply  a  sweeping 
denunciation  to  such  experiments  upon  the  power 
of  particular  medicines.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that,  the  medical  art  being  wholly  tentative,  it  be- 
comes in  some  cases  a  positive  duty  of  a  scientific 
experimenter  to  inflict  pain  upon  an  inferior  animal 
for  the  ultimate  purpose  of  assuaging  pain  or  curing 
disease.  It  is  the  useless  repetition  of  such  experi- 
ments which  makes  hard  the  heart.  It  is  the  exhi- 
bition of  such  experiments  in  the  lecture  room  which 
is  "noisome  and  infectious."  The  Queen  was  unau- 
thorised by  her  position  to 

"  Try  the  forces 

Of  these  thy  compounds  on  such  creatures  as 

We  count  not  worth  the  hanging." 

*  Scene  VII. — "  Or,  like  the  Parthian,  I  shall 
JlymjfujhlP 

Every  one  will   remember  the  noble  passage  in 
'  Paradise  Regained,'  book  iii. : — 

"  He  saw  tliem  in  their  forms  of  battle  rang'd. 

How  (piick  they  wheel'd,  and  flying  behind  them  shot 
Sharp  sleet  of  arrowy  show'rs  against  the  face 
Of  their  pursuers,  and  overcame  by  Hight." 

The  editors  of  Milton  refer  to  parallel  passages  in 
Virgil  and  Horace  asamongst  the  images  with  which 
our  great  epic  poet  was  familiar.  The  commenta- 
tors of  Shakspere  suffer  his  line  to  pass  without  a 
single  observation.  In  the  same  scene  we  have  the 
following  most  characteristic  expression  in  the  mouth 
of  a  Roman  : — 

"  As  common  as  the  stairs 
That  mount  the  Capitol." 

Upon  this  Steevens  remarks,  "  Shakspere  has  be- 
stowed some  ornament  on  the  proverbial  phrase, 
'  as  common  as  the  highway.'  "  Shakspere's  phrase 
proves,  amidst  a  thousand  similar  proofs,  his  perfect 
familiarity  with  all  the  knowledge  that  was  neces- 
sary to  make  his  characters  speak  appropriately 
with  reference  to  their  social  position. 


200 


[Hark  '  liai'k  !   tlie  lark  at  heaven'd  gate  sings.] 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I. — Court  before  Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Cloten  and  Two  Lords. 

Clo.  Was  there  ever  man  had  such  kick ! 
when  I  kissed  the  jack,  upon  an  up-cast  to  be 
hit  away!*  I  had  a  hundred  pound  on't:  And 
then  a  wlioreson  jackanapes  must  take  me  up 
for  swearing ;  as  if  I  borrowed  mine  oaths  of 
him,  and  might  not  spend  them  at  my  pleasure. 

1  Lord.  What  got  he  by  that?  You  have 
broke  his  pate  with  j^our  bowl. 

2  Lord.  If  his  wit  had  been  like  him  that 
bi'oke  it,  it  wovdd  have  ran  all  out.  \_  Aside. 

Clo.  When  a  gentleman  is  disposed  to  swear, 
it  is  not  for  any  standers-by  to  curtail  his  oaths : 
Ha? 


•  Tliis  is  us\ially  pointed.  "  wlien  I  kisi'd  the  jack  upon  an 
upcast,  to  1)0  hit  away."  IJiil  ihe  /i<cft  vvas/«i.."rfby  Cloten's 
huwl,  and  the  up-cast  of  another  bowler  hit  it  away.  The 
same  teeliiiieal  expressions ol'  kis's  and  casf  are  used  by  Rowley, 
in  "  A  Woman  never  vex'd."— "  This  city  huwler  ha^  kias'd 
the  niislress  at  liie  lirst  cast." 


2  Lord.  No,  my  lord ;  nor  l_Aside.'\  crop  the 
ears  of  them. 

Clo.  Whoreson  dog ! — I  give  him  satisfac- 
tion?  'Would  he  had  been  one  of  my  rank! 

2  Lord.  To  have  smelt  like  a  fool.       \^Aside. 

Clo.  I  am  not  vexed  more  at  any  thing  in 
the  earth, — A  pox  on't!  I  had  rather  not  be  so 
noble  as  I  am.  They  dare  not  fight  with  me, 
because  of  the  queen  my  mother :  every  jack- 
slave  hath  his  belly  full  of  fighting,  and  I  must 
go  up  and  down  like  a  cock  that  no  body  can 
match. 

2  Lord.  You  are  cock  and  capon  too ;  and 
you  crow,  cock,  with  yoiu-  comb  on.         \_A.side. 

Clo.  Say  est  thou? 

1  Lord.  It  is  not  fit  your  lordship  should 
undertake  every  companion"  that  you  give  of- 
fence to. 

»  Ciimpanion  is  used  here,  and  in  other  passages  of  Shak- 
spere,  in  the  same  sense;  Visfi:lliiw  is  at  present.  Sir  Hugh 
Evans  denounces  the  host  of  ilie  Garter  as  a  "  scurvy,  cogging 
compauiou." 

201 


Act  II.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCENK  II. 


Clo.  No,  I  know  tliat :  but  it  is  fit  I  should 
commit  offence  to  my  inferiors. 

2  Lord.  Ay,  it  is  fit  for  your  lordship  only. 
Clo.  Why,  so  I  say. 

1  Lord.  Did  you  hear  of  a  stranger  that's 
come  to  court  to-night? 

Clo.  A  stranger!  and  I  not  know  on't! 

2  Lord.  He's  a  strange  fellow  himself,  and 
knows  it  not.  \_Aside. 

1  Lord.  There's  an  Italian  come ;  and,  'tis 
thought,  one  of  Leonatus'  friends. 

Clo.  Leonatus!  a  banished  rascal;  and  he's 
another,  whatsoever  he  be.  Who  told  you  of 
tliis  stranger? 

1  Lord.  One  of  your  lordship's  pages. 

Clo.  Is  it  fit  I  went  to  look  upon  him?  Is 
thei-e  no  derogation  in't? 

1  Lord.  You  cannot  derogate,  my  lord. 
Clo.  Not  easily,  I  think. 

2  Lord.  You  are  a  fool  granted ;  therefore 
your  issues,  being  foolish,  do  not  derogate. 

\_Aside. 
Clo.  Come,  I'll  go  see  this  Italian:  What  I 
have  lost  to-day  at  bowls  I'll  win  to-night  of 
him.     Come,  go. 

2  Lord.  I'll  attend  your  lordship. 

[^Exeunt  Cloten  and  first  Lord. 
That  such  a  crafty  devil  as  is  his  mother 
Should  yield  the  world  this  ass !  a  woman,  that 
Bears  all  down  with  her  brain ;  and  this  her  son 
Cannot  take  two  from  twenty  for  his  heart, 
And  leave  eighteen.     Alas,  poor  princess, 
Thou  divine  Imogen,  what  thou  endur'st! 
Betwixt  a  father  by  thy  step-dame  govern'd; 
A  mother  hourly  coining  plots;  a  wooer. 
More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 
Of  thy  dear  husband.     From  that  horrid  act 
Of  the  divorce  he'd  make,  the  heavens  hold  firm 
The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour;"  keep  unshak'd 
That  temple,  thy  fair  mind ;  that  thou  may'st 

stand, 
To  enjoy  thy  banish'd  lord,  and  this  great  land! 

lExit. 
•  Tliis  passage  is  usually  printefl  llius :  — 

"  A  wooer, 
More  hateful  than  the  foul  expulsion  is 
Of  thy  dear  h:isband,  than  that  horrid  act 
Of  the  divorce  he'd  make !     The  heavens  hold  (iim 
Tlie  walls  of  thy  dear  honour  !" 
The  reading  of  the  original  is— 

"  A  vvoofr 
More  hateful  than  the  fodl  expuUion  is 
Or  thy  dear  husband.     Then  tliat  horrid  act 
Of  the  divorce  heel'd  make  the  heavens  hold  firm 
The  walls  of  thy  dear  honour." 
It  appears  to  us  that,  amidst  such  manifest  incorrectness  of 
typography,  a  clearer  sense  is  attained  bv  the  change  of  Then 
to  From,  than  by  altering  the  construction  of  tlie  sentence. 
The  Lord  implores  that  the  honour  of  Imogen  may  be  held 
lirm,  to  resist  the  horrid  act  of  the  di%orce  from  her  husband 
wliich  Cloten  would  make. 

202 


SCENE   n.— A  Bedchamber ;  in  one  part  of 
it  a  Triwk. 

Imogen  rending  in  her  bed ;  a  Lady  attending. 

Lmo.  Who's  there?  my  woman  Helen? 
Lady.  Please  you,  madam. 

Lmo.  What  hour  is  it? 

Lady.  Almost  midnight,  madam. 

Lmo.    I  have  read  three  hours  then  :    mine 
eyes  are  weak : 
Fold  down  the  leaf  where  I  have  left:  To  bed: 
Take  not  away  the  taper,  leave  it  burning ; 
And  if  thou  canst  awake  by  four  o'  the  clock, 
I  prithee,  call  me.    Sleep  hath  seiz'd  me  wholly. 

\_Exit  Lady. 
To  your  protection  I  commend  me,  gods ! 
From  fairies,  and  the  tempters  of  the  night, 
Guard  me,  beseech  ye ! 

\_SleeiJS.     Iachimo,  frorii  the  trunk. 
Lach.  The  crickets  sing,   and  man's  o'er-la- 
bour'd  sense 
Repairs  itself  by  rest :  Our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ^  ere  he  waken'd 
The  chastity  he  wounded. — Cytherea, 
How    bravely  thou  becom'st    thy   bed!    fresh 

lily! 
And  whiter  than  the   sheets !       That  I  might 

touch ! 
But  kiss;  one  kiss! — Rubies  unparagon'd, 
How  dearly  they  do't — 'Tis  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus :   The  flame  o'  the 

taper 
Bows  toward  her ;   and  would  under-peep  her 

lids. 
To  see  the  enclosed  lights,  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 
With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct" — But  my  de- 
sign. 


°  This  celebrated  passage  has  produced  some  difference  of 
opinion  amongst  the  commentators.  First,  Capell  says,  of 
the  word  ivindows,  "  the  poet's  meaning  is  shtitfers."  Han- 
mer  changed  the  word  to  "  curtains."  Tlie  windmp  is  the 
aperture  through  which  light  and  air  are  admitted  to  a  room  — 
sometimes  closed,  at  other  times  opened.  It  is  the  ivtnd-duor. 
We  have  the  word  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  similarly  applied — 
"  Thy  eye's  windows  full 

Like  death,  when  he  shuts  up  the  day  of  life." 
Capi'll  then  goes  on  to  say,  that  the  "white  and  azure  "  refer 
to  the  white  skin,  generally,  laced  with  blue  veins.  Secondly, 
Malone  thinks  th.it  the  epithets  apply  to  the  "  enclosed 
lights" — the  eyes.  Lastly,  Warburton  decides  that  the  eye- 
lids  were  intended.  We  are  disposed  to  agree  with  him. 
The  eye-lid  of  an  extremely  fair  young  woman  is  often  of  a 
tint  that  may  be  properly  called  "  white  and  azure;"  which 
is  produced  by  the  net-work  of  exceedingly  fine  veins  that 
runs  through  and  colours  that  beautiful  structure.  Shakspere 
has  described  this  peculiarity  in  his  Venus  and  Adonis — 

"  Her  two  blue  windows  faintly  she  upheaveth." 
And  in  The  Winter's  Tale,  we  have— 

"  J''ioletsAim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lidsoi  Juno's  eyes." 
But  in  the  text  before  us,  the  eye-lids  are  not  only  of  a  "  white 


Act  n.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCFNF   III. 


To  note  the  chamber,  I  will  write  all  down : 
Such  and  such  pictures  :— There  the  window  : 

Such 
The  adornment  of  her  bed : — The  arras,  figures,* 
Why,  such,  and  such : — And  the  contents  o'  the 

story. 
Ah,  but  some  natural  notes  about  her  body 
Above  ten  thousand  meaner  moveables 
Would  testify,  to  enrich  mine  inventory. 
O  sleep,  thou  ape  of  death,  lie  didl  upon  her ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument. 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying.' — Come  off,  come  off; 

[^Talilng  off  her  bracelet. 
As  slippery,  as  the  Gordian  knot  was  hard! 
'Tis  mine ;  and  this  will  witness  outwardly. 
As  strongly  as  the  conscience  does  within, 
To  the  madding  of  her  lord.     On  her  left  breast 
A  mole  cinque-spotted,  like  the  crimson  drops 
I'  the  bottom  of  a  cowslip.     Here's  a  voucher, 
Stronger  than  ever  law  could  make :  this  secret 
Will  force  him  think  I  have  pick'd  the  lock,  and 

ta'en 
The   treasure  of  her  honour.      No  more. — To 

what  end? 
Why  should  I  write  this  down,  that's  riveted, 
Screw'd  to  my  memory?    She  hath  been  reading 

late 
The  tale  of  Tereus;  here  the  leafs  turn'd  down 
Where  Philomel  gave  up; — I  have  enough: 
To  the  trunk  again,  and  shut  the  spring  of  it. 
Swift,   swift,    you   dragons   of  the   night,    that 

dawning 
May  bare  the  raven's  eye!"*     I  lodge  in  fear; 
Though  this  a  heavenly  angel,  hell  is  here. 

[^Clock  strilces. 
One,  two,  three, — Time,  time! 

\_Goes  into  the  trunk.      The  scene  closes. 

and  azure"  hue,  but  ihcy  are  also  "  lac'd  with  bhie  of  hea- 
ven's own  tinct" — marked  with  the  deeper  blue  of  the  larger 
veins.  The  description  is  here  as  accurate  as  it  is  beautiful.  It 
cannot  apply  with  such  propriety  to  tlie  eye,  which  certainly 
isuot  liic'd  with  blue;  nor  to  the  skin  generally,  which  would 
not  be  beautiful  as  "  white  and  azure."  It  is,  to  our  minds, 
oue  of  the  many  examples  of  Sluikspere's  extreme  .iccuracy 
of  observation,  and  of  his  trausceiidant  power  of  making  the 
exact  aiid  the  poetical  blend  with,  and  support,  each  other. 

»  M.Mason  would  read  "  the  arras-ligures;"  but  lachimo 
siibsHquently  describes,  not  only  the  figures  of  the  arras,  but 
its  particular  quality — 

"  Tapestry  of  silk  and  silver ;  the  story 
Proud  Cleopatra,"  S:c. 

">  The  oriijiniil  reads,  "  may  bcare  the  raven's  eye." 
Theobald  conected  it  to  hare.  We  are  not  quite  sure  of  the 
propriety  of  the  correction,  though  we  are  unwilling  to  dis- 
t  ub  the  received  text.  To  hare  the  raven's  eye,  is  to  open 
the  raven's  eye — the  eye  of  one  of  the  earliest  waking  and 
the  quickest-seeing  of  birds.  The  predatory  habits  of  the 
raven  require  that  he  should  be  up  before  the  shepherd  is 
about  with  his  flocks;  and  his  piercing  eye  at  once  leads  him 
whei-ethe  feeble  lamb  lies  in  some  hollow  a  ready  victim,  or 
wh  ere  the  leveret  has  crept  abroad  in  the  grey  of  the  morn- 
ing from  the  safe  funn  of  its  mother.  The  dawning  may  ; 
6a le  that  eye  ;  or  the  dawning  may  bear,  may  sustaiii,  may  , 
be  distinct  enough  to  endure— the  proof  of  that  ;;ciite  vision. 


SCENE  in.— Without  the  Palace,  under  Imo- 
gen's Apartmejit. 

Enter  Cloten  and  Lords. 

1  Lord.  Your  lordship  is  the  most  patient  man 
in  loss,  the  most  coldest  that  ever  turned  up  ace. 

Clo.  It  would  make  any  man  cold  to  lose. 

1  Lord.  But  not  every  man  patient  after  the 
noble  temper  of  your  lordship.  You  are  most 
hot  and  furious  when  you  win. 

Clo.  Winning  will  put  any  man  into  courage. 
If  I  could  get  this  foolish  Imogen,  I  should  have 
gold  enough.     It's  almost  morning,  is"t  not? 

1  Lord.  Day,  my  lord. 

Clo.  I  woidd  this  nuisic  would  come;  I  am 
advised  to  give  her  music  o' mornings;  they  say 
it  will  penetrate. 

Enter  Musicians. 
Come  on  ;  tune.  If  you  can  penetrate  her  with 
I  your  fingering,  so;  we'll  try  with  tongue  too:  if 
none  will  do,  let  her  remain ;  but  I'll  never  give 
o'er.  First,  a  very  excellent  good-conceited 
thing ;  after,  a  wonderful  sweet  air,  with  ad- 
mirable rich  words  to  it, — and  then  let  her  con- 
sider. 

SONG. 
Hark  !  hark  I  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings,  2 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise. 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chalic'd  flowers  that  lies;  » 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin  to  ope  their  golden  eyes;!" 
With  everything  that  pretty  is  °  —  My  lady  s  ,veet,  arise ; 
Arise,  arise. 

So,  get  you  gone.  If  this  penetrate,  I  will  con- 
sider yoiu-  music  the  better :  if  it  do  not,  it  is  a 
voice'^in  her  ears,  which  horse-hairs  and  calves'- 
guts,^  nor  the  voice  of  unpaved  eunuch  to  boot, 
can  never  amend.  \_Exeu7it  Musicians. 

»  This  apparently  false  concord  is  in  truth  a  touch  of  our 
antique  idiom,  which  adds  to  the  beauty  of  this  exquisite 
song.  (See  Illustration  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  ii., 
Illust.  6.) 

^  In  one  of  Browne's  Pastorals  is  a  passage  which  illus- 
trates this : — 

"  The  day  is  waxen  old. 
And  'gins  to  shut  up  with  the  marigold." 

"  Ilaumer  changed  this  to  bin — a  pretty  word.  But  is 
occurs  in  the  folio.  We  print  the  lims  as  they  are  printed 
iu  that  edition ;  by  wliich,  in  all  probability,  a  dilTereut  time 
of  the  nir  was  indicated — a  mure  rapid  rauvcment. 

*  Voice.  So  the  old  copies.  It  has  been  changed  to  I'i'ce. 
But  why  ? 

'  Calves' -gilts.  So  the  old  copy.  Rowe  changed  this  to 
cafs'-p"i.s,andhehas  been  since  followed.  The  word  cats'-gut 
— or  catgut — is  essentially  modern.  We  believe  that  there 
is  not  an  example  of  it  in  any  old  author.  In  Bacon's  Na- 
tural History  we  have  a  passage  in  which  gut — a  musical 
string  made  of  an  animal  substance — is  thus  spoken  of — "  A 
viol  should  have  a.  lay  of  wire-strings  below,  close  to  the 
belly,  and  the  strings  uf  guts  mounted  upon  a  bridge."  A\liy 
n'.jt,  then,  '.n/rei'-guts,  as  well  as  c/'s'-guts?  We  know  not 
how  the  name  c.utgut  arose,  for  cats  have  as  little  to  do 
with  the  production  of  such  strings  as  mice  have.  At  any 
rate,  if  the  text  of  8hakspcre  is  an  authority  that  stich 
strings  were  made  from  calves,  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
destroy  the  record  by  insisting  that  they  ought  to  have  been 
made  from  cats. 

203 


AOT  II. j 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  III. 


Enter  Cymbeline  avd  Queen. 

2  Lord.  Here  comes  the  king. 

Clo.  I  am  glad  I  was  up  so  late;  for  that's 
the  reason  I  was  up  so  early.  He  cannot 
choose  but  take  this  service  I  have  done,  fa- 
therly. Good  morrow  to  your  majesty,  and  to 
my  gracious  mother. 

Cym.  Attend  you  here  the  door  of  our  stern 
daughter  ? 
Will  she  not  forth? 

Clo.  I  have  assailed  her  with  musics,  but  she 
vouchsafes  no  notice. 

Cym.  The  exile  of  her  minion  is  too  new; 
She  hath  not  yet  forgot  him  :  some  more  time 
Must  wear  the  print  of  his  remembrance  out, 
And  then  she's  yours. 

Quee7i.  You  are  most  bound  to  the  king. 

Who  lets  go  by  no  vantages  that  may 
Prefer  you  to  his  daughter.     Frame  yourself 
To  orderly  solicits;  and,  befriended 
With  aptness  of  the  season,  make  denials 
Increase  your  services :  '^  so  seem,  as  if 
You  were  inspir'd  to  do  those  duties  which 
You  tender  to  her,  that  you  in  all  obey  her,'' 
Save  when  command  to  your  dismission  tends, 
And  therein  you  are  senseless. 

Clo.  Senseless?  not  so. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.    So  like    you,   sii',    ambassadors   from 
Rome ; 
The  one  is  Caius  Lucius. 

Cym.  A  worthy  fellow, 

Albeit  he  comes  on  angry  piii-pose  now; 
But  that's  no  fault  of  his :  We  must  receive  him 
According  to  the  honour  of  his  sender; 
And  tov/ards  himself,  his  goodness  forespent  on  us, 
We  must  extend  our  notice.     Our  dear  son, 
When  you  have  given  good  morning  to  your 

mistress, 
Attend  the  queen  and  us ;  we  shall  have  need 
To  employ  you  towards  this  Roman. —  Come,  our 
queen. 
[^Exeunt  Cym.,  Queen,  Lords,  and  Mess. 
Clo.  If  she  be  up,  I'll  speak  with  her;  if  not, 

»  This  is  ordinarily  printed, 

"  And  be  friended 
W^itli  aptness  of  the  season  :  make  denials 
Increase  your  ser\'ices." 
We  follow  a  suggestion  of  Monck  Mason. 
>>  This  passage  is  generally  pointed  thus — 

"  So  seem,  as  if 
You  were  inspir'd  to  do  those  duties  which 
You  tender  to  her  ;  that  you  in  all  obey  her,"  &c. 
The  meaning  of  tlie  passage  is  clearly — so  seem,  that  you  in 
all  obey  her,  as  if  you  were  inspir'd,"  &c.     The  cutting  olf 
of  the  last  member  of  the  sentence  is  dctructive  to  the  seuse. 
Yov,  are  senseless  has  the  meaning  oH  be  yuu  senseless. 

204 


Let  her  lie   still   and   dream. — By  your  leave, 
ho ! —  \_K}iocks. 

I  know  her  women  are  about  her.  What 
If  I  do  line  one  of  their  hands?  'Tis  gold 
Which  buys  admittance;  oft  it  doth;   yea,  and 

makes 
Diana's  rangers  false*  themselves,  yield  up 
Their  deer  to  the  stand  o'  the  stealer ;  and  'tis  gold 
Which  makes  the  true  man  kill'd,  and  saves  the 

thief; 
Nay,  sometime,  hangs  both  thief  and  true  man  : 

What 
Can  it  not  do,  and  undo  ?  I  will  make 
One  of  her  women  lawyer  to  me ;  for 
I  yet  not  understand  the  case  myself. 
By  your  leave.  [^Knocks. 

Enter  a  Lady. 
Lady.  Who's  there  that  knocks? 
Clo.  A  gentleman. 

Lady.  No  more  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  and  a  gentlewoman's  son. 
Lady.  That's  more 

Than  some,  whose  tailors  are  as  dear  as  yours, 
Can  jvistly  boast  of:    What's   your  lordship's 
pleasure  ? 
Clo.  Your  lady's  person  :  Is  she  ready? 
Lady.  Ay, 

To  keep  her  chamber. 

Clo.  There  is  gold  for  you ;  sell  me  yoiu*  good 

report. 
Lady.  How  !  my  good  name  ?  or  to  report  of 
you 
What  I  shall  think  is  good? — The  princess — 

Enter  Imogen. 

Clo.  Good-morrow,  fairest:  sister,  your  sweet 
hand. 

Imo.  Good-morrow,  sir :  You  lay  out  too  much 
pains 
For  purchasing  but  trouble  :  the  thanks  I  give 
Is  telling  you  that  I  am  poor  of  thanks, 
And  scarce  can  spare  them. 

Clo.  Still,  I  swear  I  love  you. 

Lmo.  If  you  but  said  so  'twere  as  deep  withme: 
If  you  swear  still,  your  recompence  is  still 
That  I  regard  it  not. 

Clo.  This  is  no  answer. 

Imo.  But  that  you  shall  not  say  I  yield,  being 

silent, 

I  would  not  speak.  I  pray  you,  spare  me  :  i'faith, 

I  shall  unfold  equal  discourtesy 

To  your  best  kindness ;  one  of  your  great  knowing 

Should  learn,  being  taught,  forbearance. 

»  False  is  here  used  as  a  verb.     See  Note  in  The  Comedy 
of  Errors,  Act  ii.,  Sc.  ii. 


Act  U.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCKNK    IV. 


Clo.    To  leave  you  in  your  madness,  'twere 
my  sin  : 
I  will  not. 

Imo.  Fools  are  not  mad  folks. 
Clo.  Do  you  call  me  fool  1 

Imo.  As  I  am  mad,  I  do : 
If  you'll  be  patient,  I'll  no  more  be  mad; 
That  cures  us  both.     I  am  much  sorry,  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners, 
By  being  so  verbal : '  and  learn  now,  for  all, 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce, 
B)^  the  very  truth  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you ; 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity, 
(To  accuse  myself, )  I  hate  you ;  which  Iliad  rather 
You  felt,  than  make't  my  boast. 

Clo.  You  sin  against 

Obedience,  which  you  owe  your  father.     For 
The  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch, 
(One  bred  of  alms,  and  foster'd  with  cold  dishes. 
With  scraps  o'the  court,)  it  is  no  contract,  none: 
And  though  it  be  allow'd  in  meaner  parties, 
(Yet  who  than  he  more  mean  ?)  to  knit  their  souls 
(On  Avhom  thei'e  is  no  more  dependency 
But  brats  and  beggary)  in  self-figvu-'d  knot, 
1  et  you  are  cm-b'd  from  that  enlargement  by 
The  consequence  o'  the  crown;  and  must  not  soil 
The  precious  note  of  it  with  a  base  slave, 
A  hilding  for  a  livery,  a  squire's  cloth, 
A  pantler,  not  so  eminent. 

Imo.  Profane  fellow  ! 

Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more 
But  what  thou  art  besides,  thou  wert  too  base 
To  be  his  gi-oom  :  thou  wert  dignified  enovigh, 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  'twere  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under-hangman  of  his  kingdom ;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

Clo.  The  south-fog  rot  him  ! 

Imo.  He  never  can  meet  more  mischance  than 
come 
To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.    His  meanest  garment. 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer, 
In  my  respect,  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee. 
Were  they  all  made  such  men.  —  How  now, 
Pisanio  ? 

Enter  Pisanio. 

Clo.  His  garment?  Now,  the  devil — 
Imo.  To  Dorothy  my  woman  hie  thee  pre- 
sently : — 
Clo.  His  garment  ? 

*  So  verbal.  Johnson  defines  this.  "  so  verbose,  so  full  of 
talk."  But  neiUier  Cloleu  nor  Imogen  have  used  many 
words.  Imogen  has  been  panning  her  strange  admirer; 
hut  slie  now  resolves  to  speali  "plainly — to  be  verbal — and 
tli'is  to  forget  a  lady's  manners. 

Traoedieb. — Vol.  I.      2D 


Imo.  I  am  sprighted  with  a  fool ; 

Frighted,  and  angor'd  worse : — Go,  bidmy  woman 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually 
Hath  left  mine  arm ;  it  was  thy  master's :   'shrew 

me, 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king's  in  Europe.     I  do  think 
I  saw't  this  morning :  confident  I  am 
Last  night  'twas  on  mine  arm ;  I  kiss'd  it : 
I  hope  it  be  not  gone,  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I  kiss  aught  but  he. 

Pis.  'Twill  not  be  lost. 

Imo.  I  hope  so  :  go  and  search.       [Exit  Pis. 

Clo.  You  have  abus'd  me : — 

His  meanest  garment  ? 

Imo.  Ay ;  I  said  so,  sir. 

If  you  will  make 't  an  action  call  witness  to't, 

Clo.  I  will  inform  your  father. 

Imo.  Your  mother  too: 

She's  my  good  lady  ;  *  and  will  conceive,  I  hope, 
But  the  worst  of  me.     So  I  leave  you,  sir. 
To  the  worst  of  discontent.  \_Exit. 

Clo.  I'll  be  reveng'd: — 

His  meanest  garment? — Well.  \_Exit. 

SCENE  IV. — Rome.     An  Apartment  in 
Philario's  House. 

Enter  Posthumus  and  Philario. 

Post.  Fear  it  not,  sir;  I  would  I  were  so  sure 
To  win  the  king,  as  I  am  bold  her  honour 
Will  remain  hers. 

Phi.  What  means  do  you  make  to  him? 

Post.  Not  any;  but  abide  the  change  of  time; 
Quake  in  the  present  winter's  state,  and  wish 
That  warmer  days  woidd  come  :  la  these  sear'd 

hopes, '' 
I  barely  gratify  your  love ;  they  failing, 
I  must  die  much  your  debtor. 

PM.  Your  very  goodness,  and  your  company, 
O'erpays  all  I  can  do.     By  this,  your  king 
Hath  heard  of  great  Augustus  :  Caius  Lucius 
Will  do  his  commission  throughly:  And,  I  think, 
He'll  grant  the  tribute,  send  the  arrearages, 
Or  look  upon  our  Romans,  whose  remembrance 
Is  yet  fresh  in  their  grief. 

Post.  I  do  believe, 

(Statist  though  I  am  none,  nor  like  to  be,) 

^  She's  my  gnnd  lad;/.  This  phrase  is  used  ironically.  To 
"  stand  my  good  lord,"  is — to  be  my  good  friend. 

'•  Sear'd  hopes.  This  is  ordinarily  printed /en  r'rf  /lopp.'^ — .-i 
reading  unnoticed  by  any  of  the  commentators  in  the  variorum 
editions,  but  explained  liy  Eccles,  in  liis  edition  of  this  drama 
(ISOl),  as  "  hopes  blended  with  fears."  \Vc  have  ventured 
to  change  the  text  to  sear'd  hopes.  "  In  the  present  winter's 
state"  the  hopes  of  Posthumus  are  sear'd;  but  they  still 
exist,  and  in  cherishing  them,  wither' d  as  they  are,  he  barely 
gratifies  his  friend's  love. 

205 


Act  11.  j 


CYMBELINE. 


[ScKNK    IV. 


That  this  will  prove  a  war ;  and  you  shall  hear 
The  legions,  now  in  Gallia,  sooner  landed 
In  our  not-fearing  Britain,  than  have  tidings 
Of  any  penny  ti-ibute  paid.     Our  countrymen 
Are  men  more  order'd,  than  when  Jvdius  Csesar 
Smil'd  at  their  lack  of  skill,  but  found  their  courage 
Worthy  his  frowning  at :  Their  discipline 
(Now  mingled "  with  their  corn-ages)  will  make 

known 
To  their  approvers,  they  are  people  such 
That  mend  upon  the  world. 

Enter  Iachimo. 

Phi.  See !   Iachimo ! 

Pofit.  The  swiftest  harts  have  posted  you  by 
land : 
And  winds  of  all  the  cornei's  kiss'd  your  sails, 
To  make  your  vessel  nimble. 

Phi.  Welcome,  sir. 

Post.  I  hope  the  briefness  of  your  answer  made 
The  speediness  of  your  return. 

lach.  Your  lady 

Is  one  of  the  fairest  that  I  have  look'd  upon. 

Post.  And  therewithal  the  best :    or  let  her 
beauty 
Look  through  a  casement  to  allure  false  hearts, 
And  be  false  with  them. 

luch.  Here  are  letters  for  you. 

Post.  Their  tenour  good,  I  trust. 

Inch.  'Tis  very  like. 

Phi.  Was  Caius  Lucius  in  the  Britain  court, 
When  you  were  there?'' 

lach.  He  was  expected  then, 

But  not  approach'd. 

Post.  All  is  well  yet. 

Sparkles  this  stone  as  it  was  wont?  or  is't  not 
Too  dull  for  your  good  wearing? 

lach.  If  I  have  lost  it, 

I  should  have  lost  the  worth  of  it  in  gold. 
I'll  make  a  journey  twice  as  far,  to  enjoy 
A  second  night  of  such  sweet  shortness,  which 
Was  mine  in  Britain  ;  for  the  ring  is  won. 

Post.  The  stone's  too  hard  to  come  by. 

lach.  Not  a  whit, 

"  Mingled.  Tlie  folio  is  distinctly  printed  wing-led— \.\\e 
compound  word,  with  a  hyphen.  It  "was  altered  by  Rowe  to 
mingled,  and  Malone  justities  it,  because  in  the  folio  wind 
has  been  printed  for  mind.  Tins  reason  is  not  very  strong, 
for  those  wlio  have  watched  the  progress  of  printers'  errors 
know  tliat  an  uncommon  word  is  not  ordinarily  substituted 
for  a  common  one.  We  would  restore  wing-led  to  th.e  text, 
because  the  pln-ase  conveys  one  of  those  bold  images  which 
are  thoroughly  Shaksperian ;  but  we  feel  tluit  the  speaker 
is  deliberately  reasoning,  and  does  not  use  the  language  of 
passion,  under  wliicli  state  ShaUspere  for  tlie  most  part 
throws  out  such  figurative  expressions.  Tlie  simple  word 
mingled  is  most  in  liarmony  with  the  entire  speech.  TiecU, 
however,  adopts  wing-led  in  his  admirable  trnnsUition. 

''  Tliis  speech,  in  tlie  original,  belongs  to  Posthumus.  But 
he  is  intent  upon  his  letters. 

206 


Your  lady  being  so  easy. 

Post.  Make  not,  sir, 

Yoin-  loss  your  sport :   I  hope  you  know  that  we 
Must  not  continue  friends. 

lach.  Good  sir,  we  must, 

If  you  keep  covenant:  Had  I  not  brought 
The  knowledge  of  your  mistress  home,  I  grant 
We  were  to  question  further :  but  I  now 
Profess  myself  the  winner  of  her  honour, 
Together  with  your  ring ;  and  not  the  wronger 
Of  her,  or  you,  having  proceeded  but 
By  both  your  wills. 

Post.  If  you  can  make't  apparent 

That  you  have  tasted  her  in  bed,  my  hand. 
And  ring,  is  yours :  If  not,  the  foul  opinion 
You  had  of  her  pure  honour  gains,  or  loses, 
Your  sword,  or  mine  ;  or  masterless  leaves  both 
To  who  shall  find  them. 

lach.  Sir,  my  circumstances 

Being  so  near  the  truth  as  I  will  make  them. 
Must  first  induce  you  to  believe :  whose  strength 
I  will  confirm  with  oath ;  which,  I  doubt  not. 
You'll  give  me  leave  to  spare,  when  you  shall  find 
You  need  it  not. 

Post.  Proceed. 

lach.  First,  her  bed-chamber, 

(Where,  I  confess,  I  slept  not ;  but  profess. 
Had  that  was  well  worth  watching,)  it  was  hang'd 
With  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver ;  the  story 
Proud  Cleopatra,  when  she  met  her  Roman, 
And  Cydnus  swell'd  above  the  banks,  or  for 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride :  A  piece  of  work 
So  bravely  done,  so  rich,  that  it  did  strive 
In  workmanship,  and  value  ;  which  I  wonder'd. 
Could  be  so  rarely  and  exactly  wrought, 
Since  the  true  life  on't  was — 

Post.  This  is  true ; 

And  this  you  might  have  heard  of  here,  by  me. 
Or  by  some  other. 

lach.  More  particulars 

Must  justify  my  knowledge. 

Post.  So  they  must. 

Or  do  your  honour  injury. 

lach.  The  chimney 

Is  south  the  chamber;  and  the  chimney-piece, 
Chaste  Dian,  bathing :  never  saw  I  figures 
So  likely  to  report  themselves  :  the  cutter 
Was  as  another  nature,  dumb  ;  outwent  her. 
Motion  and  breath  left  out. 

Post.  This  is  a  thing 

Which  you  might  from  relation  likewise  reap  ; 
Being,  as  it  is,  much  spoke  of. 

lach.  The  roof  o'  the  chamber 

With  golden  cherubins  is  fretted  :^  Her  andirons 
(I  had  forgot  them,)  were  two  winking  Cupids 


CYMBELINE. 


[SctNt   V. 


Of  silver,  eacli  on  one  foot  standing,  nicely 
Depending  on  their  brands.  ■* 

Post.  This  is  her  honour  !  *  — 

Let  it  be  granted  you  have  seen  all  this,  (and  praise 
Be  given  to  your  remembrance,)  the  description 
Of  what  is  in  her  chamber  nothing  saves 
The  wager  you  have  laid. 

lacJi.  Then,  if  you  can 

[Piilli/itf  out  till-  bracelet. 
Be  pale,  I  beg  but  leave  to  air  thisjewel:''  See! — 
And  now  'tis  up  again  :    It  must  be  married 
To  that  yoiu-  diamond  ;   Til  keep  them. 

Post.  Jove  I 

Once  more  let  me  behold  it :   Is  it  that 
Which  I  left  with  her  ? 

lach.  Sir,  (I  thank  her,)  that  : 

She  stripp'd  it  from  her  arm  ;  I  see  her  yet ; 
Her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift, 
And  yet  enrich'd  it  too :  She  gave  it  me,  and  said 
She  priz'd  it  once. 

Post.  May  be  she  pluck'd  it  off. 

To  send  it  me. 

Inch.  She  writes  so  to  you  I  doth  she  ? 

Post.  O,  no,  no,  no;  'tis  true.     Here,  take  this 
too;  \^Gives  the  ring. 

It  is  a  basilisk  unto  mine  eye, 
Kills  me  to  look  on't : — Let  there  be  no  honour 
Where  there  is  beauty ;  truth,  where  semblance ; 

love, 
Where  there's  another  man ;  The  vows  of  women 
Of  no  more  bondage  be  to  where  they  are  made. 
Than  they  are  to  their  virtues ;  which  is  nothing : — 
O,  above  measiu-e  false  ! 

Phi.  Have  patience,  sir, 

And  take  your  ring  again  ;  'tis  not  yet  won  : 
It  may  be  probable  she  lost  it;  or, 
Who  knows  if  one  of  her  women,  being  corrupted. 
Hath  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Post.  Very  true  ; 

And  so  I  hope  he  came  by't : — Back  my  ring ; — 
Render  to  me  some  corporal  sign  about  her, 
More  evident  than  this;  for  this  was  stolen. 

lach.   By  Jupiter,  I  had  it  from  her  arm. 

»  lachimo  has  just  said — 

"  I  uow 
Profess  myself  the  winner  of  lier  lionour." 

''  This  passage  is  usually  pointed  thus — 

"  Then,  if  you  can. 
Be  pale ;  I  beg  but  leave  to  air  this  jewel." 

Johnson  interprets  this  reading,  "  if  you  can  forbear  to  flush 
your  cheek  witli  rage."  IJoswell  says,  "  if  you  can  re- 
strain yourself  within  bounds.  To  pale  is  commonly  used 
for  to  contine  or  surround."  We  follow  the  punctuation  of 
the  original,  which  gives  a  clear  meaning — 

"  Then,  if  you  can 
He  pale,  I  beg  but  leave  to  air  thisjewel." 

lachimo  has  produced  no  effect  upon  Posthumus  up  to  this 
moment ;  l)iit  he  now  says,  if  you  can  be  pale,  I  will  see  what 
thisjewel  will  do  to  make  you  change  countenance. 


Post.    Hark  you,   he  swears ;    by  Jupiter  he 
swears. 
'Tis  true; — nay,  keep  the  ring — 'tis  true,   I  am 

sure 
She  would  not  lose  it :  her  attendants  are 
All  sworn,  and  honoiu'able  : — They  induc'd  to 

steal  it ! 
And  by  a  stranger! — No,  he  hath  enjoy'd  her: 
The  cognizance  of  her  incontinency 
Is  this, — she  hath  bought  the  name  of  whore 

thus  dearly. 
There,  take  thy  hire;  and  all  the  fiends  of  hell 
Divide  themselves  between  you! 

Plii.  Sir,  be  patient  I 

This  is  not  strong  enough  to  be  believ'd 
Of  one  persuaded  well  of — 

Post.  Never  talk  on't; 

She  hath  been  colted  by  him. 

lach.  If  you  seek 

For  further  satisfying,  under  her  breast 
(Worthy  the  pressing)  lies  a  mole,  right  proud 
Of  that  most  delicate  lodging :   By  my  life, 
I  kiss'd  it;  and  it  gave  me  present  hunger 
To  feed  again,  though  full.     You  do  remember 
This  stain  upon  her? 

Post.  Ay,  and  it  doth  confirm 

Another  stain,  as  big  as  hell  can  hold, 
Were  there  no  more  but  it. 

lach.  Will  you  hear  moi-e? 

Post.  Spare  your  arithmetic :  never  coimt  the 
turns; 
Once,  and  a  million! 

lach.  I'll  be  sworn, — 

Post.  No  swearing. 

If  you  will  swear  you  have  not  done't,  you  lie; 
And  I  will  kill  thee,  if  thou  dost  deny 
Thou  hast  made  me  cuckold. 

lach.  I'll  deny  nothing. 

Post.  O,  that  I  had  her  here,  to  tear  her  limb- 
meal  ! 
I  will  go  there,  and  do't;  i'the  court;  before 
Her  father: — I'll  do  something —  \_Exit. 

Phi.  Quite  besides 

The  government  of  patience ! — You  have  won : 
Let's  follow  him,  and  pervert'  the  present  wrath 
He  hath  against  himself. 

lach.  With  all  my  heart. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — The  same.     Another  Room  in  the 
same. 
Enter  Posthumus. 
Post.   Is  there   no  way  for  men  to   be,  but 
women 

^  Purrcrt — for  a^crt. 

207 


Act  II.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Must  be  half-workers?     We  are  all  bastards; 
And  that  most  venerable  man,  which  I 
Did  call  my  father,  was  I  know  not  where 
When   I   was   stamp'd;    some   coiner  with  his 

tools 
Made  me  a  counterfeit:  Yet  my  mother  seem'd 
The  Dian  of  that  time:  so  doth  my  wife 
The   nonpareil   of   this.  —  O    vengeance,    ven- 


geance 


Me  of  my  lawful  pleasure  she  restrain'd. 
And  pray'd  me,  oft,  forbearance :  did  it  with 
A  pudency  so  rosy,  the  sweet  view  on't 
Might  well  have  warm'd  old  Satui'n  ;    that  I 

thought  her 
As    chaste    as    unsimn'd    snow:  —  O,    all    the 

devils ! — 
This  yellow  lachimo,  in  an  hour, — was't  not? — 
Or  less, — at  first:  Perchance  he  spoke  not;  but. 
Like  a  full-acorn'd  boar,  a  German  one, 
Cry'd,  oh!  and  mounted:  found  no  opposition 
But  what  he  look'd  for  should  oppose,  and  she 
Should  from  encounter  guard.     Could  I  find  out 


The  woman's  part  in  me!  For  there's  no  motion 
That  tends  to  vice  in  man,  but  I  afiirm 
It  is  the  woman's  part:  Be  it  lying,  note  it. 
The  woman's;  flattering,  hers;  deceiving,  hers; 
Lust  and  rank  thoughts,  hers,  hers  ;   revenges, 

hers; 
Ambitions,  covetings,  change  of  prides,  disdain, 
Nice  longings,  slanders,  mutability. 
All  faults  that  may  be  nam'd,   nay,  that  hell 

knows, 
Why,  hers,  in  part  or  all ;  but  rather,  all : 
For  ev'n  to  vice 

They  are  not  constant,  but  are  changing  still 
One  vice  but  of  a  minute  old,  for  one 
Not  half  so  old  as  that.    I'll  write  against  them. 
Detest  them,  curse  them  : — Yet  'tis  greater  skill 
In  a  tnie  hate,  to  pray  they  have  their  will : 
The  very  devils  cannot  plague  them  better." 

'  This  is  the  same  idea  that  is  more  piously  expressed  by 
Sir  Thomas  More  — "  God  could  not  lightly  do  a  man 
more  vengeance  than  in  this  world  to  grant  him  his  own 
foolish  wishes." 


1^  :.;ii'=;'i:'/fi^v^^^ffl^- 


[Sleep  hath  sciz'd  me  wholly.] 


208 


!li;lii{i.i^,;|ij|j!|liiljijl|||^ 


[Monument  ill  Lichfield  Cathedral.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    II. 


'  Scene  II. —  "  Om-  Tarqitm  thus 

Did  softly  press  the  rushes." 

The  whole  of  this  scene  in  its  delicacy  and  beauty 
has  some  resemblance  to  the  night  scene  in  Shaks- 
pere's  Tarquin  and  Lucrece.  Indeed  Shakspere,  in 
one  or  two  expressions,  seems  to  have  had  his  own 
poem  distinctly  present  to  his  mind.     For  example: 

"  By  the  light  he  spies 
Lucretia's  glove,  wherein  her  needle  sticks ; 
He  takes  it  from  the  rushes  where  it  lies." 

Again  ;  lachimo  says  of  Imogen — 

"  O  sleep,  thou  ape  of  death,  lie  dull  upon  her  ! 
And  be  her  sense  but  as  a  monument. 
Thus  in  a  chapel  lying  I" 

Lucretia  is  in  the  same  way  described  as  a  mo- 
numental figure  reposing  upon  a  pillow  : 

"  Wliere,  like  a  virtuous  monument  she  lies." 

The  best  illustration  of  this  beautiful  image  is 
presented  by  Chantrey's  exquisite  monument  of 
the  Sleeping  Children. 

2  Scene  III.—"  Har/t,  hark,  (he  lark." 

Steevens  asserts,  without  offering  the  slightest 
evidence  in  support  of  his  assertion,  that   George 


Peele  was  the  author  of  this  song.  The  mode,  how- 
ever, in  which  Cloten  speaks  of  it,  "  A  wonderful 
sweet  air,  with  admirable  sweet  words  to  it,"  is  not 
exactly  in  Shakspere's  manner;  and  yet,  if  it  had 
been  the  work  of  any  other  poet,  the  compliment 
from  the  mouth  of  such  a  character  as  Cloten  would 
have  been  rather  equivocal.  In  our  poet's  29th 
sonnet  we  have  these  lines : — 

"  Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate." 

But  in  Lyly's  Alexander  and  Campaspe,  which 
was  first  printed  in  1584,  we  have  the  image  even 
more  closely  resembling  the  words  of  the  song.  Our 
readers  will  not  object  to  see  Lyly's  poem  entire. 

"  MTiat  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  dees  wail  ? 
O  'tis  the  ravish'd  nightingale. 
Jug,  jug,  jug, jug,  teureu  she  cries. 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave  prick  song !  who  is't  now  we  hear  ? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear ; 
Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings. 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark,  hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  red-breast  tunes  his  note ; 
Hark,  how  tlie  jolly  cuckoos  sing. 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring." 

209 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


^  Scene  H'. —  "  The  rofif  ij"  the  chamber 

IVilh  golden  cherubins  is  fretted." 

Steeveris  calls  this  "a  tawdry  image."  Douce 
justly  says,  "  The  poet  has,  in  this  instance,  given  a 
faithful  description  of  the  mode  in  which  the  rooms 
in  great  houses  were  sometimes  ornamented." 

■*  Scene  I"\'. —  "  Her  andii-ons 

(  /  had  forgot  them)  were  two  iviuking  Cupids"  &c. 
We  have  no  doubt  that  in  this  description  Shak- 


spere  literally  describes  some  work  of  art  wiiich  he 
had  seen.  At  Knowle,  one  of  the  most  interesting 
of  ancient  mansions,  there  are  "andirons,"  of  which 
the  "two  winking  Cupids  of  silver"  are  not,  indeed, 
"each  on  one  foot  standing,"  hut  in  an  attitude  suf- 
ficiently graceful  to  show  us  that  such  furniture  was 
executed  not  only  of  costly  materials,  but  with  a 
skill  such  as  the  Florentine  artists  applied  to  the 
ornamental  appendages  of  the  palaces  of  the 
great. 


[Andirons  at  Knowle.] 


210 


[Restoration  of  the  Roman  Fuvum.     Scene  vii.] 


ACT    III. 


SCENE  I.— Britain.     A  Room  of  State  in 
Cymbelines  Palace. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Qijeen,  Cloten,  and  Lords, 
at  one  door;  and  at  another,  Caius  Lucius 
and  Attendants. 

Cyvi.  Now  say,  what  would  Augustus  Csesar 
with  us  ? 

Liic.    When   Julius   Caesar    (whose    remem- 
brance yet 
Lives   in   men's   ej'es ;    and  will   to   ears    and 

tongues 
Be  theme  and  hearing  ever)  was  in  this  Britain, 
And  conquer'd  it,  Cassibelan,  thine  uncle, 
(Famous  in  Ctesars  praises,  no  whit  less 
Than  in  his  feats  deserving  it,)  for  him, 
And  his  succession,  granted  Rome  a  tribute. 
Yearly  three  thousand  poimds ;    which  by  thee 

lately 
Is  left  imtender'd. 

Queen.  And,  to  kill  the  marvel. 

Shall  be  so  ever. 

Clo.  There  be  many  Ctesars, 

Ere  such  another  Julius.     Britain  is 
A  world  by  itself;  and  we  will  nothing  pay 
For  wearing  our  own  noses. 

Queen.  That  opportunity, 

Wliicli  then  they  had  to  take  from  us,  to  resume 
We  have  again. — Remember,  sir,  my  liege. 


The  kings  your  ancestors  ;  together  with 
The  natural  bravery  of  your  isle,  which  stands 
As  Neptune's  park,  ribbed  and  paled  in 
With  rocks*  unscaleable,  and  roaring  waters  ; 
With  sands   that  will   not  bear   your  enemies' 

boats. 
But  suck  them  up  to  the  top-mast.     A  kind  of 

conquest 
Csesar  made  here  ;  but  made  not  here  his  brag 
Of  came,  and  saw,  and  overcame  :  with  shame 
(The  first  that  ever  touch'd  him)  he  was  carried 
From  off  our  coast,  twice  beaten  ;  and  his  ship- 
ping 
(Poor  ignorant  baubles  !)  on  our  tei'rible  seas. 
Like  egg-shells  mov'd  upon  their  surges,  crack'd 
As  easily  'gainst  our  rocks  :  For  joy  whereof. 
The  fanvd  Cassibelan,  who  was  once  at  point 
(O,  giglot''  fortune  !)  to  master  Ctesar's  sword. 
Made  Lud's  town  with  rejoicing  fires  bright,' 
And  Britons  strut  with  courage. 

Clo.  Come,  there's  no  more  tribute  to  be 
paid  :  Our  kingdom  is  stronger  than  it  was  at 
that  time ;  and,  as  I  said,  there  is  no  more  such 
Caesars :  other  of  them  may  have  crooked  noses ; 
but  to  owe  such  straight  arms,  none. 

»  Rocks.    The  oriL'iiuil  reads  oaks.     We  have  no  doubt  of 
the  propriety  of  the  correction,  which  is  Hunmer's. 

"  Giglut.     The  term  may  lie  explained  by  its  application 
to  Joan  of  Arc,  in  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI. — 
'■  Young  Talbot  was  not  born 
To  be  the  pillage  ot  a  ijiglot  wench." 

211 


Anr  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCKNE  II. 


Cym.  Son,  let  yovir  mother  end. 
Clo.  We  have  yet  many  among  ns  can  gripe 
as  hard  as  Cassibehm  :  I  do  not  say  I  am  one ; 
but  I  have  a  hand. — Why  tribute  ?  why  should 
we  pay  tribute?  If  Coesar  can  hide  the  sun 
from  us  with  a  blanket,  or  put  the  moon  in  his 
pocket,  we  will  pay  him  tribute  for  light ;  else, 
sir,  no  more  tribute,  pray  you  now. 

Cym.  You  must  know. 
Till  the  injurious  Romans  did  extort 
This  tribute  fi-om  us,  we  were  free:  Caesar's  am- 
bition,'' 
(Which  swell'd  so  much  that  it  did  almost  stretch 
The  sides  o'the  world,)  against  all  colour,  here 
Did  put  the  yoke  upon  us  ;  which  to  shake  off 
Becomes  a  warlike  people,  whom  we  reckon 
Ourselves  to  be.     We  do  say  then  to  C^sar, 
Our  ancestor  was  that  Mulmutius,  which 
Ordain'd  our  laws  ;    (whose  use  the  sword  of 

Cassar 
Hath  too  much  mangled ;    whose   repair   and 

franchise 
Shall,  by  the  power  we  hold,  be  our  good  deed. 
Though  Rome  be  therefore  angry  ;)   Mulmutius 

made  our  laws,*" 
Who  was  the  first  of  Britain  which  did  put 
His  brows  within  a  golden  crown,  and  call'd 
Himself  a  king.^ 

Luc.  I  am  sorry,  Cymbeline, 

That  I  am  to  pronounce  Augustus  Caesar 
(Coesar  that  hath  more  kings  his  servants  than 
Thyself  domestic  officers)  thine  enemy  : 
Receive  it  from  me,  then  : — War,  and  confusion. 
In  Ceesar's  name  pronounce  I  'gainst  thee :  look 


»  Steeveus  would  leave  out  from  us  in  this  line,  as  unne- 
cessary words,  which  only  derange  the  metre.  We  must 
again,  and  again,  beg  the  reader  to  bear  in  mind  that  this 
mode  of  corrupting  the  text  is  totally  at  variance  with  the 
practice  of  all  the  great  dramatists  of  Shakspere's  age;  it 
sacrilices  force  and  variety,  to  produce  feebleness  and  mono- 
tony. 

^  We  have  another  example  of  a  similar  corruption,  adopted 
from  Hanmer  by  Steeveus,  who  walks  amidst  the  luxurious 
growth  of  Shakspere's  versification  like  a  gardener  who  has 
predetermined  to  have  no  shoot  above  ten  inches  long  in  his 
whole  parterre.  This  line,  in  all  the  modern  editions  (ex- 
cept Malone's  of  1821),   stands  thus — 

"  Though  Eome  be  therefore  angry;)  Mulmutins." 
His  reasons  for  this  merciless  lopping  are  as  follows  : — 

"  Tlie  old  copy,  in  contempt  of  metre,  and  regardless  of 
the  preceding  words — 

Mulmutius,  which 
Ordain'd  our  laws; — 
most  absurdly  adds, 

made  our  laws." 
Is  it  not  evident  that  the  oratorical  construction  of  the  sen- 
tence requires  this  repetition,  after  the  long  parenthesis 
which  occui-s  after  the  first  mention  of  Midmutiiis?  The 
skill  of  Shakspere  is  shown  in  repeating  the  idea,  without 
repeating  precisely  the  same  words;  of  which  skill  there  are 
two  otiier  signal  examples,  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost,  and  in 
Troilus  and  Cressida.  (See  Illustrations  of  Love's  Labour  's 
Lost,  Act  IV.) 

212 


For  fury  not  to  be  resisted : — Thus  defied, 
I  thank  thee  for  myself. 

Cym.  Thou  art  welcome,  Cains. 

Thy  Caesar  knighted  me  f  my  youth  I  spent 
Much  under  him  ;  of  him  I  gather'd  honour ; 
Which  he  to  seek  of  me  again,  perforce, 
Behoves  me  keep  at  utterance.*     I  am  perfect *• 
That  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians,  for 
Their  liberties,  are  now  in  arms  :  a  precedent 
Which  not  to  read  would  show  the  Britons  cold : 
So  Caesar  shall  not  find  them. 

Luc.  Let  proof  speak. 

Clo.  His  majesty  bids  you  welcome.  Make 
pastime  with  us  a  day,  or  two,  or  longer :  If 
you  seek  us  afterwards  in  other  terms,  you  shall 
find  us  in  our  salt-water  girdle  :  if  you  beat  us 
out  of  it,  it  is  yours ;  if  you  fall  in  the  adven- 
ture, our  crows  shall  fare  the  better  for  you ; 
and  there's  an  end. 

Luc.  So,  sir. 

Cym.  I  know  your  master's  pleasure,  and  he 
mine : 
All  the  remain  is,  welcome.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — Another  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Elder  Pisanio,  reading  a  Letter. 

Pis.    How  !    of  adultery  ?      Wherefore  write 

you  not 
What  monster's  her  accuser  ?  '^ — Leonatus ! 
O,  master  !  what  a  strange  infection 
Is  fallen  into  thy  ear !     What  false  Italian 
(As  poisonous  tongvied  as  handed)   hath   pre- 

vail'd 
On  thy  too  ready  hearing? — Disloyal?     No  : 
She's  punish'd  for  her  truth  ;  and  undergoes, 
More  goddess-like  than  wife-like,  such  assaults 
As  would  take  in  some  virtue. — O,  my  master ! 
Thy  mind  to  her  is  now  as  low  as  were 
Thy  fortunes. — How !    that  I   should  murther 

her  ? 
Upon  the  love,  and  truth,  and  vows,  which  I 
Have  made  to   thy  command  ? — I,   her  ? — her 

blood? 
If  it  be  so  to  do  good  service,  never 
Let  me  be  counted  serviceable.     How  look  I, 
That  I  should  seem  to  lack  humanity 
So  much    as  this  fact  comes  to  ? — Do't :    The 

letter 


»  Utterance.    To  fight  at  utterance  is  to  fight  without  quar- 
tei' — to  the  death;   the  French — Combat  a  uutrnncc. 
^  Perfect— SiSSxxxeA.     So  in  The  Winter's  Tale— 

"  Thou  axi  perfect  then,  our  ship  hath  tonch'd  upon 
The  deserts  of  Bohemia." 
■=  The  original  has,  ichnt  monsters  her  accuse  f    The  mo- 
dern correction,  which  is  Malone's,  appears  to  be  justified  by 
the  subsequent  passage,  what  false  Italian  f 


Act  hi.] 


CYMBELINE. 


rSCKNK  II. 


That  I  have  sent  her,  by  her  own  command 
Shall  give  thee  opportunity : ■'' — O  damn'd  paper! 
Black  as  the  ink  that's  on  thee !  Senseless  bauble, 
Art  thou  a  feodary"*  for  this  act,  and  look'st 
So  virgin- like  without?     Lo,  here  she  comes. 

Enter  Imogen. 

I  am  ignorant  in  what  I  am  commanded. 
Imo.  How  now,  Pisanio  ? 
Pis.  Madam,  here  is  a  letter  from  my  lord. 
Imo.  Who?  thy  lord?  that  is  my  lord?  Leo- 

natus  ? 
O,  learn'd  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars  as  I  his  characters ; 
He'd  lay  the  future  open. — You  good  gods, 
Let  what  is  here  contain'd  relish  of  love, 
Of  my  lord's  health,  of  his  content, — yet  not, 
That  we  two  are  asimder,  let  that  grieve  him, — 
(Some  griefs  are  med'cinable ;)  that  is  one  of 

them. 
For  it  doth  physic  love  ; — of  his  content, 
All  but  in  that !  —  Good  wax,   thy  leave  :  — 

Bless'd  be 


»  The  original  stage  direction  iit  the  commencement  of  this 
scene  is — "  Enter  Pisanio  reading  of  a  letter."  The  modern 
editors,  when  they  come  to  the  passage  beginning  du't,  insert 
another  stage  direction — reading.  Upon  this  Malone  raises 
>ip  the  following  curious  theory: — "  Our  poet  from  negli- 
gence sometimes  makes  words  change  their  form  under  the 
eye  of  the  speaker,  who  in  dilfeieut  parts  of  tlie  same  play 
recites  them  differently,  thougli  he  lias  a  paper  or  letter  in 
his  lumd,  and  actitalh/  rends  from  it.  *****  xhe 
words  here  read  by  Pisanio  from  liis  master's  letter  (which 
is  afterwards  given  at  length,  and  in  pruse)  are  not  found 
there,  though  the  substance  of  them  is  contained  in  it.  This 
is  one  of  many  proofs  that  Shakspere  had  no  view  to  the 
publication  of  his  pieces.  There  was  little  danger  that  such 
an  inaccuracy  should  be  detected  by  the  ear  of  the  spectator, 
though  it  could  liardly  escape  an  attentive  reader."  Now, 
we  would  ask,  what  can  be  more  natural — what  can  be 
more  truly  in  Shakspere's  own  manner,  which  is  a  reflection 
of  nature — than  that  a  person  having  been  deeply  moved 
by  a  letter  which  he  has  been  reading,  should  comment 
upon  the  substance  of  it  ivithanf  repeating  the  exact  words  ? 
The  very  commencement  of  Pisanio's  soliloquy — "  How  1 
of  aduliery  ?" — is  an  example  of  this.  The  word  adulter^/  is 
not  mentioned  in  the  letter  upon  which  he  comments.  Malone 
refers  to  a  similar  negligence  in  the  last  scene  of  All's  Well 
that  Ends  Well,  where  Helena  thus  addresses  Berti-am — 

"  There  is  your  ring. 
And,  look  you,  here's  your  letter:  This  it  says, 
JV lien  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this  ring,"  &c. 

Malone  adds,  "  she  reads  the  words  from  Bertram's  letter." 
He  has  no  right  to  assume  this,  nor  dues  he  even  give  a  stage 
direction  to  that  effect  in  his  edition  ;  but,  because  the  letter 
which  Helena  reads  in  Act  in.  contains  these  words — "  when 
thou  canst  yet  the  ring  upiin  my  finger," — Shakspere  has  been 
guilty  of  negligence,  oversight,  inattention,  &c.  &c.,  in  not 
giving  the  exact  words  of  the  letter,  when  she  offers  it  to 
Bertram.  Really,  a  critic,  putting  on  a  pair  of  spectacles,  to 
compare  the  recollections  of  deep  feeling  with  the  document 
■which  has  stirred  that  feeling,  as  lie  would  compjire  the  copy 
of  an  affidavit  with  the  original,  is  a  ludicrous  exhibition. 

''  Feodary — feudary.  Haumer  says,  "  A  feodai-y  is  one 
who  holds  his  estate  under  the  tenure  of  suit  and  service 
to  a  superior  lord."  Malone  says,  "  The  feodary  was  the 
escheator's  associate,  and  hence  Shakspere,  with  his  usual 
licence,  uses  the  word  for  a  confederate  or  associate  in  gene- 
ral." We  beg  to  refer  our  readers  to  the  Illustrations  of 
Henry  IV.,  Part  i..  Act  i.,  in  which  we  endeavour  to  show 
that  tXie  feudal  vassal  and  the  companion  were  each  meant  by 
the  same  word— ;fei-e — feudary— feodary . 

Tragedies. — Vol.  I.        2  E 


You  bees  tliat  make   these  locks  of  counsel  I 

Lovers, 
And  men  in  dangerous  bonds,  pray  not  alike ; 
Though  forfeiters  you  cast  in  prison,  yet 
You  clasp  young  Cupid's  tables.* — Good  news, 

gods !  [^Rcadn. 

'  Justice,  and  your  fatlier's  wrath,  should  lie  take  me  in 
his  dominion,  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  an  you,  ()  the 
dearest  of  creatures,  would  even  renew  me  with  your  eyes.'' 
Take  notice  that  I  am  in  Cambria,  at  Milford-Haven  :  What 
your  own  love  will  out  of  this  advise  you,  follow.  So,  he 
wishes  you  all  happiness,  that  remains  loyal  to  Ills  vow,  and 
your,  increasing  in  love, 

'  Leonatus  Posthumus.' 

O,  for  a  horse  with  wings ! — Hear'st  thou,  Pi- 
sanio ? 
He  is  at  Milford-Haven  :  Read,  and  tell  me 
How  far  'tis  thither.     If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a  day  ? — Then,  true  Pisanio, 
(Who  long'st,   like  me,  to  see  thy  lord ;    who 

long'st, — 
O,    let    me    'bate,  —  but  not    like    me  :  —  yet 

long'st, — 
But  in  a  fainter  kind  : — O,  not  like  me  ; 
Formine'sbeyondbeyond,*^)  say,  and  speak  thick, 
(Love's  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing. 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense,)  how  far  it  is 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford  :  And,  by  the  way. 
Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
To  inherit  such  a  haven  :  But,  first  of  all. 
How  we  may  steal  from  hence  ;  and,  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence- 
going 

"  This  address  to  the  bees  contains  one  of  Shakspere's 
legal  allusions.  The/oj'/eifers  (in  the  first  folio  forfeytuurs^ 
had  sealed  to  dangerous  bonds ;  and  in  that  age  the  seal  was 
as  binding  as  the  signature,  and  rather  more  so. 

•*  This  sentence  is  very  difficult ;  but  it  does  not  appear  to 
us  to  be  mended  by  the  departure  from  the  original  reading, 
which  we  ordinarily  tind — "  Justice,  and  your  father's  wrath, 
should  he  take  me  in  his  dominion,  covild  not  be  so  cruel  to 
me,  as  you,  O  the  dearest  of  creatures,  would  not  even  renew" 
me  with  your  eyes."  Malone  inserted  not;  and  explains  the 
reading  thus — Justice,  &c.,  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  but 
that  you  would  be  able  to  renew  me,  &c.  This  may  be  the 
meaning :  but  it  is  scarcely  borne  out  by  the  construction  of 
Malone's  improved  sentence.  In  the  original  it  stands  thus 
— "  Justice,  and  \our  father's  wrath,  (should  he  take  me  in 
his  dominion,)  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  as  you  :  (oh  the 
dearest  of  creatures)  would  even  renew  me  with  your  eyes." 
It  is  here  evident  that  the  printer  has  mistaken  the  sense  in 
his  ' '  could  not  be  so  cruel  to  me,  as  you  : ' '  and  when  printers 
have  a  crotchet  as  to  the  meaning  of  a  sentence,  they  seldom 
scruple  to  deviate  from  the  copy  before  them.  The  so  re- 
quired therefore  from  them  its  parallel  conjunction  as.  But 
if  we  alter  a  single  letter  we  have  a  clear  meaning,  withont 
any  forced  construction.  An  is  often  used  familiarly  for  i/by 
Shakspere  and  the  other  old  dramatists,  as  it  was  in  discourse 
and  correspondence.  We  have  the  word  repeatedly  in  Mea- 
sure for  Measure  : — for  example,  "  An  he  should.  It  were  an 
alms  to  hang  him."  Let  us  therefore  read  the  sentence  with 
the  substitution  of  an  for  as — "  Justice,  and  your  father's 
wrath,  should  he  take  me  in  his  dominion,  could  not  be  so 
cruel  tome,  an  you,  (O  the  dearest  of  creatures,)  would  even 
renew  me  with  your  eyes."  Even  is  here  used  in  the  old 
sense  of  equally,  even-so,  and  is  opposed  to  "  so  cruel." 

"  Beyond  beyond.  The  second  beyond  is  used  as  a  substan- 
tive, which  gives  us  the  meaning  oi  further  than  beyond.  The 
Scotch  have  a  saying— "at  the  back  of  beyont." 

213 


Act  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCENK    III. 


And  our  return,  to  excuse : — but  first,  how  get 

hence : 
Why  should  excuse  be  born  or  e'er  begot? 
We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Prithee,  speak. 
How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
'Twixt  hour  and  hour  ? 

Pis.  One  score  'twixt  sun  and  sun, 

Madam,  's  enough  for  you ;  and  too  much  too. 

Imo.  Why,  one  that  rode  to  his  execution,  man, 
Could  never  go  so  slow  :  I  have  heard  of  riding- 
wagers. 
Where  horses  have  been  nimbler  than  the  sands 
That  run  i'   the  clock's  behalf: — But   this   is 

foolery : 
Go,  bid  my  woman  feign  a  sickness ;  say 
She'll   home   to  her   father:   and  provide  me, 

presently, 
A  riding  suit ;  no  costlier  than  would  fit 
A  franklin's  housewife.* 

Pis.  Madam,  you  're  best  consider. 

Tmo.  I  see  before  me,  man :  nor  here,  nor  here. 
Nor  what  ensues,  but  have  a  fog  in  them, 
That  I  cannot  look  through.'*     Away,  I  prithee; 
Do  as  I  bid  thee  :  There's  no  more  to  say ; 
Accessible  is  none  but  Milford  way.      {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — Wales.    A  moimtainous  Country, 
with  a  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and  Arviragus. 

Bel.  A  goodly  day  not  to  keep  house,  with  such 
Whose  roof's   as  low   as   ours  I    Stoop,''  boys : 

This  gate 
Insti-ucts  you  how  to  adore  the  heavens ;   and 

bows  you 
To  a  morning's  holy  office :  The  gates  of  mo- 

narchs 
Are  arch'd  so  high  that  giants  may  jet  through 
And  keep  their  impious  turbands  on,  without 
Good  moi'row  to  the  sun. — Hail,  thou  fair  heaven. 
We  house  i'  the  rock,  yet  use  thee  not  so  hardly 
As  prouder  livers  do. 

Gui.  Hail,  heaven! 

Arv.  Hail,  heaven ! 

Bel.  Now  for  our  mountain  sport :  Up  to  yon 
hill. 


'  Monck  Mason  has,  we  think,  given  us  the  true  interpret- 
ation of  this  passage.  /  see  before  me,  man,  is,  I  see  cleurlv 
that  my  course  is  for  Milford.  Nur  here,  nor  here,  nor  what 
ensues — neither  this  way,  uor  that  way,  nor  the  way  behind 
me, — but  have  a  fog  in  them. 

*>  Stoop.  The  original  reads  sleep  —  a  manifest  error. 
Rowe  corrected  it  to  see;  Malone  would  read  siceet.  The 
correction  of  stoop,  by  Hanmer,  is  certainly  conceived  in  a 
poetical  spirit.    It  accords  with — 

"  This  gate 
Instructs  you  how  to  adore  the  heavens;  and  bows  you 
To  a  morning's  holy  office." 

214 


Your   legs    are   young  ;    I'll  tread  these  flats. 

Consider, 
When  you  above  perceive  me  like  a  crow, 
That  it  is  place  which  lessens  and  sets  off; 
And  you  may  then  revolve  what  tales  I  have 

told  you 
Of  courts,  of  princes,  of  the  tricks  in  war : 
This  service  is  not  service,  so  being  done. 
But  being  so  allow'd :  To  apprehend  thus. 
Draws  us  a  profit  from  all  things  we  see  : 
And  often,  to  our  comfort,  shall  we  find 
The  sharded  beetle^  in  a  safer  hold 
Than  is  the  full-wing'd  eagle.     O,  this  life 
Is  nobler,  than  attending  for  a  check; 
Richer,  than  doing  nothing  for  a  bribe  ;  * 

■  These  lines  are  ordinarily  printed,  as  in  the  folio — 
•'  O,  this  life 

Is  nobler  than  attending  for  a  check ; 

Richer  than  doing  nothing  for  a  babe." 
Conjecture  has  here  exhausted  itself,  and  has  fallen  back 
upon  the  authority  of  the  original  text.  We  shall  endeavour 
to  explain  the  whole  passage,  and  to  justily  our  adoption  of 
Hanmer's  alteration  of  babe  to  bribe,  by  referring  to  the 
source  of  the  ideas  thus  briefly  expressed,  which  we  think 
Shakspere  liad  in  his  mind.  We  believe  that  source  to  have 
been  Spenser's  '  Mother  Hubbard's  T;de.'  Belarius  begs 
his  boys  to 

"  revolve  what  tales  I  have  told  you 

Of  courts,  of  princes ; ' ' 
and  he  then  goes  on  to  say  that  their  own  life 

"  Is  nobler  tban  attendin<i  for  a  clieck." 
Spenser  describes,  in  one  of  the  finest  didactic  passages  of  our 
language,  the  condition  of  the  man  "  whom  wicked  fate  hath 
brought  to  court ;" 

"  Full  little  knowest  thou,  that  hast  not  tried, 

What  hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide  : 

To  lose  good  days  that  might  be  better  spent; 

To  waste  long  nights  in  pensive  discontent ; 

To  Sliced  to-day,  to  be  put  back  to-morrow; 

To  feed  on  hope ,  to  pine  with  fear  and  sorrow  ; 

To  liave  thy  Prince's  grace,  yet  want  her  Peers' ; 

To  have  thy  asking,  jet  wait  many  years; 

To  fret  tliy  soul  with  crosses  and  with  cares; 

To  eat  thy  heart  through  comlortless  despairs ; 

To  fawn,  to  crouch,  to  wait,  to  ride,  to  run. 

To  spend,  to  give,  to  want,  to  be  undone. 

Unhappy  wight,  born  to  disastrous  end. 

That  doth  his  life  in  so  long  tendance  spend!" 
Here  we  have  the  precise  meaning  of  attending  furnished  us 
by  tendance;  and,  we  tliink,  the  meaning  of  checlt,  which  has 
been  controverted,  is  supplied  us  by  to  be  put  back  to-morrow. 
The  whole  passage  is,  indeed,  a  description  of  the  alternate 
progress  and  check,  which  the  "  miserable  man  "  of  Spenser 
receives.  Comjiared  with  such  a  life  of  humiliation,  the 
wild  mountain  life  is  nobler.  We  liave  next  the  life  de- 
scribed in  a  line,  than  wliich  the  mountain  life  is  richer. 
According  to  the  original  text  it  is,  "  than  doing  nothing  lor 
a  babe."  If  we  take  it  in  the  common  sense  of  babe,  (in 
which  sense  it  occurs  again  in  the  same  scene — "  I  stole 
these  irtbes,")  it  is  impossible  to  extract  a  meaning  from  it. 
Warbmton  reads,  therefore,  bauble.  Steevens  bable,  which 
he  says  was  the  ancient  spelling  of  bauble.  Capell  affirms 
that  babe  and  bable  are  sj-nonymous.  Johnson  would  read 
brabe,  from  brabium,  a  badge  of  honour.  Looking  at  the 
usual  course  of  typographical  errors,  we  should  say,  it  is  the 
easiest  thing  possible  for  babe  to  be  printed  for  bribe,  even  if 
the  word  were  bribe  in  the  manuscript.  In  the  printer's 
cases  (the  technical  name  for  the  boxes  from  whicli  he  takes 
liis  letters)  the  r  is  placed  next  to  the  a,  and  if  a  compositor 
were  taking  the  wrong  letter,  to  set  up  b-a-i-b-e,  the  proba- 
bility is,  that  a  half-informed  correcter  would  take  out  the  i, 
leaving  babe.  But,  putting  aside  these  considerations,  and 
rejecting  altogether  the  nonsense  of  George  Chalmers,  that  the 
word  was  bnbee  (the  Scotch  bawbee),  what  is  the  meaning 
of  doing  nothing  for  a  6a6e,  bable,  or  bauble'?  Is  it,  that  the 
courtier  is  idle,  that  he  may  receive  some  outward  mark  of 
honour — a  title,  as  Capell  says  ?  We  think  not.  Spenser  has 
told  us  distinctly  what  it  is  to  do  nothing  for  a  bribe — to  give 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCFNK    111. 


Prouder,  than  rustling  in  unpaid-for  silk : 
Such  gains  the  cap  of  him  that  makes  him  fine, 
Yet  keeps  his  book  uncross'd" :  no  life  to  ours. 
Gut.  Out  of  your  proof  you  speak,  we,  poor 

unfledg'd. 
Have  never  wing'd  from  view  o'  the  nest;  nor 

know  not 
What  air  's  from  home.     Haply,  this  life  is  best. 
If  quiet  life  be  best;  sweeter  to  you, 
That  have  a  sharper  known  ;  well  corresponding 
With  your  stiff  age :  but  unto  us  it  is 
A  cell  of  ignorance ;  travelling  abed ; 
A  prison  for  a  debtor,  that  not  dares 
To  stride  a  limit. 

Arv.  What  should  we  speak  of, 

When  we  are  old  as  you?  when  we  shall  hear 
The  rain  and  wind  beat  dark  December,  how. 
In  this  our  pinching  cave,  shall  we  discourse 
The  freezing  hours  away  ?  We  have  seen  nothing : 
We  are  beastly  ;  subtle  as  the  fox,  for  prey  ; 
Like  warlike  as  the  wolf,  for  what  we  eat : 
Our  valour  is  to  chase  what  flies ;  our  cage 
We  make  a  quire,  as  doth  the  prison 'd  bird. 
And  sing  our  bondage  freely. 

Bel.  How  you  speak  ! 

Did  you  but  know  the  city's  usuries, 
And  felt  them  knowingly:  the  art  o'  the  coiu-t, 
As  hard  to  leave,  as  keep  ;  whose  top  to  climb 
Is  certain  falling,  or  so  slippery  that 
The  fear's  as  bad  as  falling  :  the  toil  of  the  war, 
A  pain  that  only  seems  to  seek  out  danger 
I'  the  name  of  fame  and  honour :  which  dies  i'  the 

search ; 
And  hath  as  oft  a  slanderous  epitaph 
As  record  of  fair  act;  nay,  many  times. 
Doth  ill  deserve  by  doing  well ;  what's  worse, 

nothing  in  return  for  a  bribe;  and  we  believe  Shakspere  had 
this  in  \ie\v.  His  mountain  life  is  certainly  richer  than 
riches  so  corruptly  derived  : — • 

"  Or  otherwise  false  Reynold  would  abuse 
The  simple  suitor,  and  wish  him  to  choose 
His  master,  being  one  of  great  regard 
In  court,  to  compass  any  suit  not  hard. 
In  case  his  pains  were  recompensed  with  reason. 
So  would  he  work  the  silly  man  by  treason 
To  buy  his  master's  frivolous  good  will. 
That  had  not  power  to  do  him  good  or  ill." 

This  old  mode  of  doing  nothing,  for  a  bribe,  is,  we  fear,  not 
obsolete,  even  though  influence  has  succeeded  to  corruption. 

"  As  we  have  had  the  niibli:r  and  the  richer  life,  we  ha^e 
now  the  prouder.    The  mountain  life  is  compared  with  that  of 

"  Kustling  in  unpaid-for  silk." 

The  illustrative  lines  which  are  added,  we  take  it,  mean  that 
such  a  one  as  does  rustle  in  unpaid-for  silk  receives  the  cour- 
tesy {gains  the  cop)  of  him  that  makes  him  fine,  yet  he,  the 
wearer  of  silk,  keeps  his,  the  creditor's,  book  vncross'd.  To 
cross  the  booh  is,  even  now,  a  common  expression  for  oblite- 
rating the  entry  of  a  delit.  It  belongs  to  the  rude  age  of 
credit.     The  original  reading  is, 

"  Such  gain  the  cap  of  him  that  makes  him  fine ;" 

but  the  second /im  is  generally  altered  to  them.  We  have 
adopted  the  slighter  alteration  of  gains. 


Must  court'sy   at  the  censure : — O,  boys,   this 

story 
The  world  may  read  in  me :  My  body's  mark'd 
With  Roman  swords ;  and  my  report  was  once 
First  with  the  best  of  note :  Cymbeline  lov'd  me ; 
And  when  a  soldier  was  the  theme  my  name 
Was  not  far  off:  Then  was  I  as  a  tree 
Whose  boughs  did  bend  with  fruit :  but,  in  one 

night, 
A  storm,  or  robbery,  call  it  what  you  will, 
-Shook  down  my  mellow  hangings,  nay,  my  leaves. 
And  left  me  bare  to  weather. 

Gui.  Uncertain  favour  ! 

Bel.  My  fault  being  nothing  (as  I  have  told 

you  oft) 
But  that  two  villains,  whose  false  oaths  prevail'd 
Befoi-e  my  perfect  honour,  swore  to  Cymbeline 
I  was  confederate  with  the  Romans  :  so, 
Follow'd  my  banishment ;  and,  this  twenty  years. 
This  rock  and  these  demesnes  have  been  my 

world : 
Where  I  have  liv'd  at  honest  freedom  ;  paid 
More  pious  debts  to  heaven,  than  in  all 
The   fore-end   of  my   time. — But,   vtp    to    the 

moimtains ; 
This  is  not  hvmters'  language  :^ — He  that  strikes 
The  venison  first  shall  be  the  lord  o'  the  feast ; 
To  him  the  other  two  shall  minister ; 
And  we  will  fear  no  poison,  which  attends 
In  place  of  greater  state.      I'll  meet  you  in   the 

valleys.  [^Exeunt  Gvi.  and  Ar\. 

How  hard  it  is  to  hide  the  sparks  of  nature  ! 
These  boys  know  little  they  are  sons  to  the  king ; 
Nor  Cymbeline  dreams  that  they  are  alive. 
They  think  they  are  mine  :  and,  though  train 'd 

up  thus  meanly 
r  the  cave,  wherein  they  bow,^  their  thoughts 

do  hit 
The  roofs  of  palaces  ;  and  nature  prompts  them. 
In  simple  and  low  things,  to  prince  it  much 
Beyond  the  trick  of  others.     This  Polydore, — 
The  heir  of  Cymbeline  and  Britain,  whom 
The  king  his  father  called  Guiderius, — Jove  ! 
When  on  my  three-foot  stool  I  sit,  and  tell 
The  warlike  feats  I  have  done,  his  spirits  fly 

out 
Into  my  story  :  say, — '  Thus  mine  enemy  fell ; 
And  thus  I  set  my  foot  on  his  neck' — even  then 
The  princely  blood  flows  in  his  cheek,  he  sweats. 
Strains  his  young  nerves,  and  puts  himself  in 

posture 

«  The  old  TeaAmgis,u'hereonthe  bnwe — clearly  a  misprint. 
It  was  corrected  by  Warburton,  with  this  explanation  :  "  In 
thisvei-y  cave,  which  is  so  low  that  they  must  bend  or  bow 
on  entering  it,  yet  are  their  thoughts  so  exalted,"  &c. 

215 


Act  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  IV. 


That   acts  my  words.     The   younger   brother, 

Cadwal, 
(Once  Arvmigus,)  in  as  like  a  figure 
Strikes  life  into  my  speech,  and  shows  much  more 
His  own  conceiving.  Hai"k  !  thegameisrous'dl — 
O  Cymbeline !  heaven,  and  my  conscience,  knows 
Thou  didst  unjustly  banish  me :  whereon, 
At  three,  and  two  years  old,  I  stole  these  babes; 
Thinking  to  bar  thee  of  succession,  as 
Thou  reft'st  me  of  my  lands.     Euriphile, 
Thou  wast  their  nurse  ;  they  took  thee  for  their 

mother, 
And  every  day  do  honour  to  her  grave  : 
Myself,  Belarius,  that  am  Morgan  call'd. 
They  take  for  natiu'al  father.      The  game  is  up. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Near  Milford-Haven. 

Enter  Pisanio  a7ul  Imogen. 

Imo,  Thou  told'st  me,   when  we  came  from 

horse,  the  place 
Was  near  at  hand : — Ne'er  long'd  my  mother  so 
To  see  me  first,  as  I  have  now  : — Pisanio !  Man  ! 
Where  is  Posthumus?"   What  is  in  thy  mind 
That  makes  thee  stare  thus  ?    Wherefore  breaks 

that  sigh 
From  the  inward  of  thee?  One,  but  painted  thus. 
Would  be  interpreted  a  thing  perplex'd 
Beyond  self-explication  :  Put  thyself 
Into  a  'haviour  of  less  fear,  ere  wildness 
Vanquish  my  staider  senses.  What's  the  matter? 
Why  tender'st  thou  that  paper  to  me,  with 
A  look  untender  ?     If  it  be  summer  news,'' 
Smile  to't  before  :  if  winterly,  thou  need'st 
But  keep  that  countenance  still. — My  husband's 

hand ! 
That  drug-damn'd  Italy  hath  out-craftied  him. 
And  he's  at  some  hard  point. — Speak,  man  ;  thy 

tongue 
May  take  off  some  extremity,  which  to  read 
Would  be  even  mortal  to  me. 


"  Postlmmus.     "  Sliakspere's  apparent  ignorance  of  quan- 
tity is  not  the  least  among  many  proofs  of  his  want  of  learn- 
ing."    So  decides  Steevens,  but  he  adds,  with  great  candour, 
' '  It  may  be  said  tliat  quantity  in  tlie  age  of  our  autlior  did 
not  appear  to  have  been  much  regarded."     Ritson  blunders 
upon  the  truth — "  Sliakspere's  ignorance  of  the  quantity  of 
Posthumus  is  the  rather  remarliable  as  he  gives  it  rightly 
both  when  the  name  first  occurs  and  in  another  place — 
'  To  his  protection  :  calls  him  Posthumus' — 
'  Struck  the  main-top ! — O,  Posthumus  !  alas  ! '  " 
Both  these  critics  knew  perfectly  well  that  all  the  poets  of 
Sliakspere's  age  were  in  the  habit  of  changing  the  accentua- 
tion  of  proper  names,  to  suit  tlieir  versification ;  and  that 
learning  or  no  learning  had  nothing  to  do  with  tlie  matter. 

''  Summer-news.     Our  poet  lias  the  same  idea  in  his  98th 
Sonnet — 

"  Yet  not  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  tlie  sweet  smell 
Of  difl'erent  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue. 
Could  make  me  any  summrr's  start/  tell." 

216 


Pis.  Please  you  read  ; 

And  you  shall  find  me,  wretched  man,  a  thing 
The  most  disdain'd  of  fortune. 

Imo.  [Reads.)  '  Thy  mistress,  Pisanio,  liatli  played  tlie 
strumpet  in  my  bed  :  the  testimonies  whereof  lie  bleeding  in 
me.  I  speak  not  out  of  weak  surmises ;  but  from  jiroof  as 
strong  as  my  grief,  and  as  certain  as  I  expect  my  revenge. 
Tliat  part,  thou,  Pisanio,  must  act  for  me,  if  thy  faith  be  not 
tainted  with  the  breach  of  hers.  Let  thine  own  hands  take 
away  her  life :  I  shall  give  thee  opportunity  at  Milford- 
Haven  :  she  hath  my  letter  for  the  purpose  :  Wliere,  if  thou 
fear  to  strike,  and  to  make  me  certain  it  is  done,  tliou  art  the 
pandar  to  her  dishonour,  and  equally  to  me  disloyal.' 

Pis.  What  shall  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ? 

the  paper 
Hath  cut  her  throat  already. — No,   'tis    slan- 
der,— 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword ;  whose 

tongue 
Outvenoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile ;  whose  breath 
Rides  on  the  posting  winds,  and  doth  belie 
All  corners  of  the  world, — kings,  queens,  and 

states. 
Maids,  matrons, — nay,  the  secrets  of  the  grave 
This    viperous    slander    enters. — What   cheer, 

madam  ? 
Imo.  False  to  his  bed !  What  is  it  to  be  false  ? 
To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  on  him? 
To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?  if  sleep  charge 

nature. 
To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him. 
And  cry  myself  awake?  that's  false  to  his  bed? 
Is  it? 

Pis.  Alas,  good  lady  ! 

/>«o.    I   false  ?     Thy   conscience  •  witness : — 

lachimo. 
Thou  didst  accuse  him  of  incontinency ; 
Thou  then  look'dst   like    a  villain;    now,  me- 

thinks. 
Thy  favour's  good  enough. — Some  jay  of  Italy, 
Whose  mother  was  her  painting,"  hath  betray'd 

him : 


»  Some  jay  of  Italy,  &c.  Tlie  Italian  putta  has  a  double 
meaning.  The  jay  of  Italy  is  the  "  Roman  courtezan,"  as 
well  as  the  painted  bird.  Tiiis  is  one  of  the  many  proofs  of 
Sliakspere's  acquaintance  with  the  Italian.  But  how'  shall 
we  explain  the  original  reading,  "  whose  mother  was  her 
painting  ?"  Johnson  says,  "  the  creature  not  of  nature  butof 
painting.  In  this  sense  painting  may  be  not  improperly 
termed  her  mother."  Steevens,  in  illustration  of  this,  gives 
a  quotation  from  an  old  comedy: — "  A  parcel  of  conceited 
feather-caps,  whose  fathers  were  their  garments."  Capell 
and  Hanmer  would  read,  "  whose  featfter  was  her  painting." 
We  greatly  doubt  whether  the  reading  mother  can  be  sup- 
ported ;  and  we  are  not  much  enamoured  of  feather.  May 
we  venture  to  suggest,  without  altering  the  text,  that  muffler 
was  the  word;  which,  as  written,  might  be  easily  mistaken 
for  mother  f  The  class  of  persons  wiiich  Shakspere  here  de- 
signates by  the  terra  jay  were  accustomed  to  wear  a  veil  or 
mask  called  a  muffler.  (See  a  quotation  from  Randle  Holme's 
'  Academy  of  Armory,'  in  Douce,  vol.  i.,  page  78.)  They 
wore  them,  says  Holme,  "  being  ashamed  to  show  their 
faces."  The  jay  of  Italy,  as  it  appears  to  us,  needed  no  other 
disguise  than  the  painting  of  her  face — her  "  muffler  was  lier 
painting." 


A<ri    HI] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  IV. 


Poor  I  am  stale,  a  garment  out  of  fashion ; 
And,   for    1    am  richer  than  to    liang  by   the 

walls, 
I  must  be  ripp'd  :  '^ — to  pieces  with  me  ! — O, 
Men's  vows  are    women's   traitors!    All  good 

seeming, 
By  thy  revolt,  O  husband,  shall  be  thought 
Put  on  for  villany ;  not  born  where  't  grows. 
But  worn,  a  bait  for  ladies. 
Pis.  G  ood  madam,  hear  me. 

Imo.  True  honest  men  being  heard,  like  false 
.^neas. 
Were,  in  his  time,  thought  false  :  and  Sinon's 

weeping 
Did  scandal  many  a  holy  tear ;  took  pity 
From  most  true  wretchedness  :  So,  thou.  Post- 
humus, 
Wilt  lay  the  leaven  on  all  proper  men  ; 
Goodly,  and  gallant,  shall  be  false  and  perjur'd, 
From   thy   great  fail. — Come,  fellow,  be  thou 

honest: 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding  :  When  thou  see'st 

him 
A  little  witness  my  obedience  :  Look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself:  take  it;  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart: 
Fear  not;   'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there ;  who  was,  indeed, 
The  riches  of  it :  Do  his  bidding ;  strike. 
Thou  may'st  be  valiant  in  a  better  cause. 
But  now  thou  seem'st  a  coward. 

Pii.  Hence,  vile  instrument ! 

Thou  shaltnot  damn  my  hand. 

Imo.  Why,  I  must  die  ; 

And  if  I  do  not  by  thy  hand,  thou  art 
No    servant    of   thy   master's :    Against    self- 
slaughter 
There  is  a  pi'ohibition  so  divine 
That  cravens  my  weak  hand.     Come,  here's  my 

heart ; 
Something's   afore  't;  — Soft,    soft;    we'll   no 

defence  ; 
Obedient  as  the  scabbard. — What  is  here ; 
The  scriptures  of  the  loyal  Leonatus, 
All  turn'd  to  heresy  ?  Away,  aAvay, 
Corrupters  of  my  faith  !  you  shall  no  more 
Be  stomachers  to  my  heart !  Thus  may  poor  fools 
Believe  false   teachers :  Though  those  that  are 

betray'd 
Do  feel  the  treason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe. 
And  thou,  Posthumus,  that  didst  set  up 
My  disobedience  'gainst  the  king  my  father, 

"  .-ifire   t      The  oiiainal  rcails  nfant — ovidcntlv  an  crior. 


i   And  make  me  put  into  contempt  the  suits 
Of  princely  fellows,  shalt  hereafter  find 
It  is  no  act  of  common  passage,  but 
A  strain  of  rareness :  and  I  grieve  myself, 
To  think  when  thou  shalt  be  disedg'd  by  her 
Tliat  now  thou  tir'st  on,  how  thy  memory 
Will  then  be  pang'd  by  me. — Prithee,  despatch: 
The  lamb  entreats  the  butcher :    Where's  thy 

knife  ? 
Thou  art  too  slow  to  do  thy  master's  bidding, 
When  I  desire  it  too. 

Pis.  O  gracious  lady. 

Since  I  receiv'd  command  to  do  this  business, 
I  have  not  slept  one  wink. 

Imo.  Do't,  and  to  bed  then. 

Pis.  I'll  wake  mine  eye-balls  blind  first.* 
I?no.  Wherefore  then 

Didst  undertake  it  ?  Why  hast  thou  abus'd 
So  many  miles,  with  a  pretence  ?  this  place  ? 
Mine  action,  and  thine  own  ?  our  horses'  labour  ? 
The  time  inviting  thee  ?  the  perturb'd  court. 
For  my  being  absent ;  whereunto  I  never 
Purpose  return  ?  Why  hast  thou  gone  so  far 
To  be  unbent  when  thou  hast  ta'en  thy  stand. 
The  elected  deer  before  thee  ? 

Pis.  But  to  win  time 

To  lose  so  bad  employment :  in  the  which 
I  have  consider'd  of  a  course.     Good  lady. 
Hear  me  with  patience. 

Imo.  Talk  thy  tongue  weary  ;   speak : 

I  have  heard  I  am  a  strumpet;  and  mine  ear. 
Therein  false  struck,  can  take  no  greater  wound, 
Nor  tent  to  bottom  that.     But  speak. 

Pis.  Then,  madam, 

I  thought  you  would  not  back  again. 

Imo.  Most  like  ; 

Bringing  me  here  to  kill  me. 

Pis.  Not  so,  neither  : 

But  if  I  were  as  wise  as  honest,  then 
My  purpose  would  prove  well.     It  cannot  be 
But  that  my  master  is  abus'd  : 
Some  villain,  ay,  and  singidar  in  his  art. 
Hath  done  j'ou  both  this  cm-sed  injury. 
Imo.  Some  Roman  courtezan. 
Pis.  No,  on  my  life. 

I'll  give  but  notice  you  are  dead,  and  send  him 
Some  bloody  sign  of  it ;  for  'tis  commanded 
I  should  do  so  :  You  shall  be  miss'd  at  court, 
And  that  will  well  confirm  it. 

Imo.  Wliy,  good  fellow, 

What  shall  I  do  the  while?    Where  bide?   How 
live  ? 


"  In  the  orighial  the  line  stands,  "  111  wake  mine  eye- 
balls first."'     Hanmer  and  Johnson  suggested  the  insertion  of 

blind. 


217 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCKNE  V. 


Or  in  my  life  what  comfort,  when  I  am 
Dead  to  my  husband  ? 

Pis.  If  you'll  back  to  the  court, — 

Two.  No  co\u-t,  no  father;  nor  no  more  ado 
With  tliat  harsh,  noble,  simple,  nothing  : 
That  Cloten,  whose  love-suit  hath  been  to  me 
As  fearful  as  a  siege. 

Pis.  If  not  at  court. 

Then  not  in  Britain  must  you  bide. 

Imo.  Where  then  ? 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines?  Day,  night, 
Are  they  not  but  in  Britain  ?  I'the  world's  volume 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  it ; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest.     Prithee,  think 
There's  livers  out  of  Britain. 

Pis.  I  am  most  glad 

You  think  of  other  place.     The  ambassador, 
Lucius  the  Roman,  comes  to  Milford-Haven 
To-morrow  :  Now,  if  you  could  wear  a  mind 
Dark  as  your  fortune  is — and  but  disguise 
That  which,  to  appear  itself,  must  not  yet  be. 
But  by  self- danger ; — you  should  tread  a  course 
Pretty,  and  full  of  view  :  yea,  haply,  near 
The  residence  of  Posthumus  :  so  nigh,  at  least. 
That,  though  his  actions  were  not  visible,  yet 
Report  should  render  him  hourly  to  your  ear. 
As  truly  as  he  moves. 

Imo.  O,  for  such  means  ! 

Though  peril  to  my  modesty,  not  death  on't, 
I  would  adventure. 

Pis.  WeU  then,  here's  the  point : 

You  must  forget  to  be  a  woman ;  change 
Command  into  obedience ;  fear,  and  niceness, 
(The  handmaids  of  all  women,  or,  more  truly. 
Woman  its  pretty  self, )  to  a  waggish  courage ; 
Ready  in  gibes,  quick-answer'd,  saucy,  and 
As  quai'rellous  as  the  weasel ;  nay,  you  must 
Forget  that  rarest  treasure  of  your  cheek. 
Exposing  it  (but,  O,  the  harder  heart ! 
Alack  no  remedy  !)  to  the  greedy  touch 
Of  common-kissing  Titan  :  and  forget 
Your  laboursome  and  dainty  trims,  wherein 
You  made  great  Juno  angry. 

Imo.  Nay,  be  brief: 

I  see  into  thy  end,  and  am  almost 
A  man  already. 

Pis.  First,  make  yourself  but  like  one. 

Fore-thinking  this,  I  have  already  fit, 
('Tis  in  my  cloak-bag,)  doublet,  hat,  hose,  all 
That  answer  to  them  :  Would  you,  in  their  serving. 
And  with  what  imitation  you  can  borrow 
From  youth  of  such  a  season,  'fore  noble  Lucius 
Present  yourself,  desire  his  service,  tell  him 
Wherein  you  are  happy,  (which  you'll  make  him 
know, 
218 


If  that  his  head  have  ear  in  music,)  doubtless 
With  joy  he  will  embrace  you ;  for  he's  honourable. 
And,  doubling  that,  most  holy.     Your  means 

abroad,  ^ 
You  have  me,  rich ;  and  I  will  never  fail 
Beginning,  nor  supplyment. 

Imo.  Thou  art  all  the  comfort 

The  gods  will  diet  me  with.     Prithee,  away : 
There's  more  to  be  consider'd ;  but  we'll  even 
All  that  good  time  will  give  us  :  This  attempt 
I'm  soldier  to,  and  will  abide  it  with 
A  prince's  courage.     Away,  I  prithee. 

Pis.  Well,  madam,  we  must  take  a  short  fare- 
well ; 
Lest,  being  miss'd,  I  be  suspected  of 
Your  carriage  from  the  court.  My  noble  mistress, 
Here  is  a  box  :  I  had  it  from  the  queen  ; 
What's  in't  is  precious ;  if  you  are  sick  at  sea. 
Or  stomach-qualm 'd  at  land,  a  dram  of  this 
Will  drive  away  distemper. — To  some  shade. 
And  fit  you  to  your  manhood  : — May  the  gods 
Direct  you  to  the  best ! 

Itno.  Amen :  I  thank  thee. 

l^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — J  Room  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Queen,  Cloten,  Lucius, 
a)id  Lords. 

Cy7n.  Thus  far;  and  so  farewell. 

Lttc.  Thanks,  royal  sir. 

My  emperor  hath  wrote  ;  I  must  from  hence ; 
And  am  right  sorry  that  I  must  report  ye 
My  master's  enemy. 

Cym.  Our  subjects,  sir. 

Will  not  endure  his  yoke ;  and  for  ourself 
To  show  less  sovereignty  than  they  must  needs 
Appear  unkinglike. 

Luc.  So,  sir,  I  desire  of  you 

A  conduct  over  land,  to  Milford-Haven. — 
Madam,  all  joy  befal  your  grace,  and  you! 

Cym.  My  lords,  you  are  appointed  for  that 
office; 
The  due  of  honour  in  no  point  omit. 
So,  farewell,  noble  Lucius. 

Luc.  Your  hand,  my  lord. 

Clo.  Receive  it  friendly :  but  from  this  time 
forth 
I  wear  it  as  your  enemy. 

Luc.  Sir,  the  event 

Is  yet  to  name  the  winner  :  Fare  yovi  well. 

"  Malone  interprets  this,  "  As  for  your  subsistence  abrnnd, 
you  may  rely  on  me."  Surely  abroad  is  not  here  used  in  tlie 
sense  of  being  in  foreign  parts.  It  is  the  old  adverb  on  hrede. 
The  means  of  Imogen  are  far  off— not  at  band — all  abroad — 
as  we  still  say.  But  Pisanio  tells  her,  failing  her  own 
means,  "  vou  hare  me,  rich." 


Act  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCENK  V. 


Cym.  Leave  not  the  wortliy  Lucius,  good  my 
lords, 
Till  he  have  cross'd  the  Severn. — Happiness ! 

\_Exeu7it  Lucius  and  Lords. 

Queen.    He   goes    hence   frowning :     but   it 
honours  us 
That  we  have  given  him  cause. 

CIo.  'Tis  all  the  better ; 

Yoiu-  valiant  Britons  have  their  wishes  in  it. 

Cym.  Lucius  hath  wrote  already  to  the  emperor 
How  it  goes  here.     It  fits  us  therefore,  ripely, 
Our  chariots  and  our  horsemen  be  in  readiness: 
The  powers  that  he  already  hath  in  Gallia 
Will  soon  be  drawn  to  head,  from  whence  he 

moves 
His  war  for  Britain. 

Queen.  'Tis  not  sleepy  business  ; 

But  must  be  look'd  to  speedily,  and  strongly. 

Cym.  Our  expectation  that  it  would  be  thus 
Hath  made  us  forward.     But,  my  gentle  queen. 
Where  is  our  daughter  ?  She  hath  not  appear'd 
Before  the  Roman,  nor  to  us  hath  tender'd 
The  duty  of  the  day :  She  looks  us  like 
A  thing  more  made  of  malice  than  of  duty  : 
We  have  noted  it. — Call  her  before  us ;  for 
We  have  been  too  slight  in  sufferance. 

{^Exit  an  Attendant. 

Queen.  Royal  sir. 

Since  the  exile  of  Posthumus,  most  retir'd 
Hath  her  life  been  ;  the  cure  whereof,  my  lord, 
'Tis  time  must  do.     'Beseech  your  majesty, 
Forbear  sharp  speeches  to  her  :  She's  a  lady 
So  tender  of  rebukes,  that  words  are  strokes. 
And  strokes  death  to  her. 

Re-enter  an  Attendant. 

Cym.  Where  is  she,  sir  ?  How 

Can  her  contempt  be  answer'd  ? 

Atten.  Please  you,  sir. 

Her  chambers  are   all  lock'd ;  and  there's  no 

answer 
That  will  be  given  to  the  loud'st  of  noise  we  make. 

Queen.  My  lord,  when  last  I  went  to  visit  her, 
She  pray'd  me  to  excuse  her  keeping  close ; 
Whereto  constrain'd  by  her  infirmity, 
She  should  that  duty  leave  unpaid  to  you, 
Which  daily  she  was  bound  to  proffer :  this 
She  wish'd  me  to  make  known ;  but  our  great 

court 
]\Iade  me  to  blame  in  memory. 

Cym.  Her  door's  lock'd? 

Not  seen  of  late  ?  Grant,  heavens,  that  which  I 

fear 
Prove  false !  \_Exit. 

Queen.  Son,  I  say,  follow  the  king. 


Clo.  That  man  of  hers,  Pisanio,  her  old  servant, 
I  have  not  seen  these  two  days. 

Queen.  Go,  look  after. — 

\_Exit  Cloten. 
Pisanio,  thou  that  stand'st  so  for  Posthumus !  — 
He  hath  a  drug  of  mine :  I  pray,  his  absence 
Proceed  by  swallowing  that ;  for  he  believes 
It  is  a  thing  most  precious.     But  for  hex-. 
Where  is  she  gone?  Haply,  despair  hath  seiz'd 

her; 
Or,  wing'd  with  fervour  of  her  love,  she's  flown 
To  her  desir'd  Posthumus :  Gone  she  is 
To  death,  or  to  dishonour  ;  and  my  end 
Can  make  good  use  of  either  :  She  being  down, 
I  have  the  placing  of  the  British  crown. 

Re-enter  Cloten. 
How  now,  my  son  ? 

Clo.  'Tis  certain  she  is  fled  : 

Go  in,  and  cheer  the  king;  he  rages;  none 
Dare  come  about  him. 

Queen.  All  the  better  :  May 

This  night  forestall  him  of  the  coming  day  ! 

\_Exit  Queen. 

Clo.  I  love,  and  hate  her  :  for  she 's  fair  and 
royal ; 
And  that  she  hath  all  courtly  parts  more  exquisite 
Than  lady,  ladies,  woman ;  *  from  every  one 
The  best  she  hath,  and  she,  of  all  compounded, 
Outsells  them  all :  I  love  her  therefore.     But, 
Disdaining  me,  and  throwing  favours  on 
The  low  Posthumus,  slanders  so  her  judgment. 
That  what 's  else  rare  is  chok'd  ;    and,  in  that 

point, 
I  will  conclude  to  hate  her,  nay,  indeed. 
To  be  reveng'd  upon  her.     For,  when  fools 

Enter  Pisanio. 

Shall — Who  is  here  ?     What !  are  you  packing, 

sirrah  ? 
Come  hither:  Ah,  you  precious  pander !  Villain, 
Where  is  thy  lady  ?    In  a  word  ;  or  else 
Thou  art  straightway  with  the  fiends. 

Pis.  O,  good  my  lord  ! 

Clo.  Where  is  thy  lady?  or,  by  Jupiter 
I  will  not  ask  again.     Close  villain, 
I'll  have  this  secret  from  thy  heart,  or  rip 
Thy  heart  to  find  it.     Is  she  with  Posthumus? 
From  whose  so  many  weights  of  baseness  cannot 
A  dram  of  worth  be  drawn. 

Pis.  Alas,  my  lord, 

How  can  she  be  with  him?  When  was  she  miss'd? 
He  is  in  Rome. 

"  There  is  a  somewhat  similar  form  of  expression  in  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,  Act  ii.,  Sc.  ni. — "  To  any  count;  to 
all  counts ;  to  what  is  man." 

219 


Act  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  VI. 


Clo.  Where  is  she,  sir?  Come  nearer; 

No  further  halting  :  satisfy  me  home 
What  is  become  of  her  ? 

Pis.  O,  my  all-worthy  lord  ! 
Clo.  All-worthy  villain  ! 

Discover  where  thy  mistress  is,  at  once, 
At  the  next  word, — No  more  of  worthy  lord, — 
Speak,  or  thy  silence  on  the  instant  is 
Thy  condemnation  and  thy  death. 

Pis.  Then,  sir. 

This  paper  is  the  history  of  my  knowledge 
Touching  her  flight.  [^Presenting  a  letter. 

Clo.  Let's  see't: — I  will  pursue  her 

Even  to  Augustus'  throne. 

Pis.  Or  this,  or  perish.  * 

She's  far  enough;  and  what  he  learns  by  this. 
May  prove  his  travel,  not  her  danger.      [Aside. 
Clo.  Humph ! 

Pis.    I'll  write   to  my  lord   she's  dead.      O 
Imogen, 
Safe  may'st  thou  wander,  safe  return  again  ! 

[Aside. 
Clo.  Sirrah,  is  this  letter  true  ? 
Pis.  Sir,  as  I  think. 

Clo.  It  is  Posthumus'  hand  ;  I  know  't. — 
Sirrah,  if  thou  would'st  not  be  a  villain,  but  do 
me  true  service,  undergo  those  emploj'ments 
wherein  I  should  have  cause  to  use  thee,  with  a 
serious  industry, —  that  is,  what  villany  soe'er 
I  bid  thee  do,  to  perform  it  directly  and  truly, — 
I  would  think  thee  an  honest  man  ;  thou  should'st 
neither  want  my  means  for  thy  relief  nor  my 
voice  for  thy  preferment. 
Pis.  Well,  my  good  lord. 
Clo.  Wilt  thou  serve  me  ?  For  since  patiently 
and  constantly  thou  hast  stuck  to  the  bare  for- 
tune of  that  beggar  Posthumus,  thou  canst  not 
in  the  course  of  gratitude  but  be  a  diligent  fol- 
lower of  mine.  Wilt  thou  serve  me  ? 
Pis.  Sir,  I  will. 

Clo.  Give  me  thy  hand,  here's  my  purse. 
Hast  any  of  thy  late  master's  garments  in  thy 
possession  ? 

Pis.  J  have,  my  lord,  at  my  lodging,  the  same 
suit  he  wore  when  he  took  leave  of  my  lady  and 
mistress. 

Clo.  The  first  service  thou  dost  me,  fetch  that 
suit  hither  :  let  it  be  thy  first  service  ;  go. 

Pis.  I  shall,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Clo.  Meet  thee  at  Milford-Haven  : — I  forgot 

to  ask  him  one  thing ;  I'll  remember  't  anon  : — 

Even  there,  thou  villain,  Posthumus,  will  I  kill 


>  Pisaiiio,  in  givin<;  Cloten  a  letter  whicli  is  to  mislead 
him,  means  to  say,  I  must  either  adopt  this  stratagem  or 
perish  by  his  fury. 

220 


thee. — I  would  these  garments  were  come.  She 
said  upon  a  time  (the  bitterness  of  it  I  now  belch 
from  my  heart),  that  she  held  the  very  garment 
of  Posthumus  in  more  respect  than  my  noble 
and  natural  person,  together  with  the  adornment 
of  my  qualities.  With  that  suit  upon  my  back 
will  I  ravish  her :  First  kill  him,  and  in  her 
eyes ;  there  shall  she  see  my  valour,  which  will 
then  be  a  torment  to  her  contempt.  He  on  the 
ground,  my  speech  of  insultment  ended  on  his 
dead  body, — and  when  my  lust  hath  dined 
(which,  as  I  say,  to  vex  her  I  will  execute  in 
the  clothes  that  she  so  praised),  to  the  court  I'll 
knock  her  back,  foot  her  home  again.  She  hath 
despised  me  rejoicingly,  and  I'll  be  merry  in  mj^ 
revenge. 

He-enter  Pisanio,  with  the  clothes. 

Be  those  the  garments  ? 

Pis.  Ay,  my  noble  lord. 

Clo.  How  long  is't  since  she  went  to  Milford- 
Haven  ? 

Pis.  She  can  scarce  be  there  yet. 

Clo.  Bring  this  apparel  to  my  chamber  ;  that 
is  the  second  thing  that  I  have  commanded  thee ; 
the  third  is,  that  thou  wilt  be  a  voluntary  mute 
to  my  design.  Be  but  duteous,  and  true  j^refer- 
ment  shall  tender  itself  to  thee. — My  revenge 
is  now  at  Milford  :  'Would  I  had  wings  to  fol- 
low it ! — Come,  and  be  true.  [Exit. 

Pis.  Thou  bidd'st  me  to  my  loss :  for,  true  to 
thee 
Were  to  prove  false,  which  I  will  never  be 
To  him  that  is  most  true.     To  Milford  go. 
And  find  not  her  whom  thou  pursu'st.    Flow, 

flow. 
You  heavenly  blessings,  on  her !  This  fool's  speed 
Be  cross'd  with  slowness  :  labour  be  his  meed .' 

[Exit. 

SCENE  YL— Before  the  Cave  of  Belarius. 

Enter  Imogen,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Imo.  I  see  a  man's  life  is  a  tedious  one  ; 
I  have  tir'd  myself;  and  for  two  nights  together 
Have  made  the  ground  my  bed.    I  should  be  sick, 
But  that  my  resolution  helps  me.— Milford, 
When   from  the  mountain-top   Pisanio    show'd 

thee. 
Thou  wast  within  a  ken :  O  Jove !  I  think 
Foundations  fly  the  wi'etched :  such,  I  mean. 
Where  they  shovdd  be  reliev'd.     Two  beggars 

told  me 
I  could  not  miss  my  way  :  Will  poor  folks  lie. 
That  have  afflictions  on  tliem  ;  knowing  'tis 


III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCENK    VI. 


A  punishment,  or  trial  ?     Yes ;  no  wonder, 
When   rich  ones  scarce   tell  true :  To  lapse  in 

fulness 
Is  sorer  than  to  lie  for  need ;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. — My  dear  lord! 
Thou  art  one  o'  the  false  ones.    Now  I  think  on 

thee 
My  hunger's  gone  ;  but  even  before  I  was 
At  point  to  sink  for  food. — But  what  is  this  ? 
Here  is  a  path  to  it :  'Tis  some  savage  hold  : 
I  were  best  not  call ;  I  dare  not  call :  yet  famine, 
Ere  clean  it  o'erthrow  nature  makes  it  valiant. 
Plenty,  and  peace, breeds  cowards;  hardness  ever 
Of  hardiness  is  mother. — Ho  !  who's  here  ? 
If  any  thing  that's  civil,  speak ; — if  savage — 
Take,    or   lend.* — Ho  ! — No   answer  ?  then  I'll 

enter. 
Best  draw  my  sword ;  and  if  mine  enemy 
But  fear  the  sword  like  me,  he'll  scarcely  look  on't. 
Such  a  foe,  good  heavens !    \_She  goes  iiito  the  cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  mid  Arviragus. 

Bel.  You,  Polydore,  have  prov'd  best  wood- 
man, and 
Are  master  of  the  feast :  Cadwal,  and  I, 
Will  play  the  cook,  and  servant ;   'tis  our  match : 
The  sweat  of  industry  would  dry,  and  die, 
But  for  the  end  it  works  to.  Come ;  our  stomachs 
Will  make  what's  homely  savoury :  Weariness 
Can  snore  upon  the  flint,  when  resty''  sloth 
Finds  the  down  pillow  hard. — Now,  peace  be  here, 
Poor  house  that  keep'st  thyself! 

Gui.  I  am  throughly  weary. 

Arv.  I  am  weak  with  toil,  yet  strong  in  ap- 
petite. 
Gui.  There   is   cold  meat  i'  the  cave ;    we'll 
browze  on  that 
Whilst  what  we  have  kill'd  be  cook'd. 

Bel.  Stay  ;  come  not  in  : 

[^Looking  in. 

•  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  affix  a  very  precise  meaning  to 
words  wliich  are  meant  to  be  spoken  under  great  trepidation. 
Tlie  poor  wanderer  entering  tlie  cave,  whicli  slie  fears  is 
"  some  savage  hold,"  exliorts  the  inhabitant  to  spenh  if  civil 
— if  belonging  to  civilized  life.  This  is  clear.  But  we 
doubt  whether  she  goes  on  to  ask  the  savage  to  tahe  a  reward 
for  his  food  or  to  lend  il ;  for,  in  that  case,  she  would  address 
ideas  to  the  savage  which  do  not  belong  to  his  condition. 
Yet  this  is  the  general  interpretation  of  the  passage.  The 
take  or  lend  more  belong  to  the  civilized  being  that  may  dwell 
in  the  cave,  than  to  the  savage  one.  We  have,  therefore, 
ventured  to  point  the  passage  as  it  the  expression,  if  savage, 
were  merely  the  pareuthetical  whisper  of  her  own  fears — "  If 
anything  tliat's  civil,  speak;  take  or  lend."  The  if  savage 
is  interposed,  when  no  answer  is  returned  to  speak.  Johnson 
suggested  a  transposition  of  the  sentence — 

"  If  any  thiug  that's  civil,  take  or  lend, 
If  savage  speak." 

••  Resly.  So  the  original  (restie).  Steevens,  by  one  of  his 
dashing  corrections,  changed  the  word  to  restive.  Besty, 
reasty,  raisty,  is  rancid — a  provincial  expression,  generally 
applied  to  bacon  spoiled  by  long  keeping;  which  the  Lon- 
doners have  changed  into  rusty.  Reasty  and  rusty  are  most 
probably  the  same  words,  meaning,  spoiled  for  want  of  use. 

TnAOEDiES. — Vol.  I.     a  F 


But  that  it  eats  our  victuals  1  should  think 
Here  were  a  fairy. 

Gui.  What's  the  matter,  sir? 

Bel.  By  Jupiter,  an  angel !  or,  if  not. 
An  earthly  paragon  ! — Behold  divineness 
No  elder  than  a  boy  ! 

Enter  Imogen. 

Imo.  Good  masters,  harm  me  not : 
Before  I  enter'd  here  I  call'd ;  and  thought 
To  have  begg'd,  or  bought  what  I  have  took 

Good  troth, 
I  have  stolen  nought ;  nor  would  not,  though  I 

had  found 
Gold  strew'd  o'  the  floor.     Here's  money  for  my 

meat : 
I  would  have  left  it  on  the  board,  so  soon 
As  I  had  made  my  meal ;  and  parted 
With  prayers  for  the  provider. 

Gui.  Money,  youth  '. 

Arv.  All  gold  and  silver  rather  turn  to  dirt ! 
As  'tis  no  better  reckon'd,  but  of  those 
Who  worship  dirty  gods. 

Imo.  I  see  you  are  angry  : 

Know,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  I  should 
Have  died  had  I  not  made  it. 
Bel.  Whither  bound  ? 
Imo.  To  Milford-Haven. 
Bel.  What  is  your  name  I 

Imo.  Fidele,  sir  :   I  have  a  kinsman  who 
Is  bovmd  for  Italy  ;  he  embark'd  at  Milford  ; 
To  whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger, 
I  am  fallen  in  this  ofl'ence. 

Bel.  Prithee,  fair  youth, 

Think  us  no  churls;  nor  measure  our  good  minds 
By  this  rude  place  we  live  in.  Well  encounter'd! 
'Tis  almost  night :  you  shall  have  better  cheer 
Ere  you  depart ;  and  thanks,  to  stay  and  eat  it. 
Boys  bid  him  welcome. 

Gui.  Were  you  a  woman,  youth, 

I  should  woo  hard  but  be  your  groom. — In  ho- 
nesty, 
I  bid  for  you  as  I  do  buy. 

Arv.  I'll  make  't  my  comfort, 

He  is  a  man  ;  I'll  love  him  as  my  brother  : — 
And  such  a  welcome  as  I'd  give  to  him 
After  long  absence,  such  is  yours  : " — Most  wel- 
come ! 
Be  sprightly,  for  you  fall  'mongst  friends. 

Imo.  'Mongst  friends  1 

If  brothers? — Would  it  had  been  so,  that  they 
Had  been  my  father's  sons,  then  had  my  prize 
Been  less  ;  and  so  more  equal  ballasting 
I  To  thee,  Posthumus.  \^Aside. 

•  Such  is  yours.      So  the  folio.     All  the  modern  editions 
1    read,  such  as  yours,  thereby  spoiling  the  sense. 

221 


Act  III.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  VII. 


Bel.  He  wrings  at  some  distress. 

Gui.   'Would  I  could  free  't ! 

Arv.  Or  I ;  whate'er  it  be, 

What  pain  it  cost,  what  danger!  Gods  ! 

Bel.  Hark,  boys.         \_Wliispering. 

Imo.  Great  men, 
That  had  a  court  no  bigger  than  this  cave. 
That  did  attend  themselves,  and  had  the  virtue 
Which  their  own   conscience  seal'd  them  (lay- 
ing by 
That  nothing  gift  of  differing  multitudes),'' 
Could  not  out-peer  these  twain.  Pardon  me,  gods ! 
I'd  change  my  sex  to  be  companion  with  them, 
Since  Leonatus  false. 

Bel.  It  shall  be  so. 

Boys,    we'll   go    dress  our  hvmt. — Fair   youth, 

come  in  : 
Discourse  is   heavy,  fasting  ;    when   Ave   have 

supp'd. 
We'll  mannerly  demand  thee  of  thy  storj^, 
So  far  as  thou  wilt  speak  it. 

Gui.  Pray,  draw  near. 

j47-v.  The  night  to  the  owl,  and  morn  to  the 

lark,  less  welcome. 

»  Differing  multitudes.     In  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV. 
we  have — 

"  The  still  discordant,  wavering  multitude  ;" 
anil  the  word  differing  is  most  iirobably  used  here  in  the  same 
sense. 


Imo.  Thanks,  sir. 
Arv. 


I  pray,  draw  near.  \_Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.— Rome. 

Enter  Two  Senators  and  Tribunes. 

1  Sen.  Thisis  the  tenour  of  the  emperor's  writ: 
That  since  the  common  men  are  now  in  action 
'Gainst  the  Pannonians  and  Dalmatians, 

And  that  the  legions  now  in  Gallia  are 
Full  weak  to  undertake  our  wars  against 
The  fallen-off  Britons,  that  we  do  incite 
The  gentry  to  this  business.     He  creates 
Lucius  pro-consul :  and  to  you  the  tribunes. 
For  this  immediate  levy,  he  commands 
His  absolute  commission.     Long  live  Caesar .' 
Iri.  Is  Lucius  general  of  the  forces  ? 

2  Sen.  Ay. 
Tri.  Remaining  now  in  Gallia  ? 

1  Sell.  With  those  legions 

Which  I  have  spoke  of,  whereunto  your  levy 
Must  be   supplyant :  The  words  of  your  com- 
mission 
Will  tie  you  to  the  numbers,  and  the  time 
Of  their  despatch. 

Tri.  We  will  discharge  our  duty. 

\_Exeunt. 


[Well,  madam,  we  miist  take  a  short  farewell.] 


222 


[Caiu  of  Augustus.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    III. 


'  Scene  1. — "  The  fmn^d  Cassibelan,u'ho  was  once 
at  point 
(^O^giijlot  fortiaie!)  fomnster  Ca-sar^s  sivord, 
Made  Lud''s  town  with  rejoicing  Jires  bright." 

Malone  has  the  following  ohservation  upon  this 
passage :  "  Shakspere  has  here  transferred  to  Cas- 
sibelan  an  adventure  which  happened  to  liis  brother 
Nennius.  'The  same  historic  (saj^s  Holinshed) 
also  maketh  mention  of  Nennius,  brother  to  Cas- 
sibelane,  who  in  fight  happened  to  getCasar's  sword 
fastened  in  his  shield,  by  a  blow  which  Caesar  struck 
at  him.' "  Malone  has  here  fallen  into  an  error, 
from  a  too  literal  acceptance  of  Shakspere's  words. 
To  be  once  at  point  to  ynaster  Ccesar's  sword,  is  to 
be  once  nearly  vanquishing  Caesar.  We  can  put 
our  finger  upon  the  passage  in  Holinshed's  Chro- 
nicle which  Shakspere  had  in  view  :  "  Our  histories 
far  differ  from  this  (Caesar's  account),  affirming  that 
Caesar,  coming  the  second  time,  was  by  the  Britains 
with  valiancj^  and  martial  prowess  beaten  and  re- 
pelled, as  he  was  at  the  first,  and  specially  liy  means 
that  Cassibelane  had  pight  in  the  Thames  great 
piles  of  trees,  piked  with  iron,  through  which  his 
ships,  being  entered  the  river,  were  perished  and  lost. 
And  after  his  coming  a  land  he  was  vanquished  in 
battle,  and  constrained  to  flee  into  Gallia  with  those 
ships  that  remained.  For  joy  of  this  second  victory 
(saith  Galfrid)  Cassibelane  made  a  great  feast  at 
London,  and  there  did  sacrifice  to  the  gods."  The 
victory  and  the  rejoicing  are  exactly  in  the  same 
juxta-position  as  in  Shakspere. 

The  LwVs  town  of  the  old  chroniclers  is  London. 
They  considered  that  London  was  the  town  of  Lud; 
and,  in  a  similar  manner,  that  Lud-gate  was  the 
gate  of  Lud.  The  tradition  that  Lud  rebuilt  the 
ancient  Troinovant  is  given  in  Spenser :  |  Fairy 
Queen,  canto  x.  book  ii.J 

"  He  had  two  sons,  whose  eldest,  called  Lud, 
Left  of  his  life  most  famous  memory. 
And  endless  monuments  of  his  great  good. 
Tlie  ruin'd  walls  he  did  re-edify 
Of  Troinovant,  'gainst  force  of  enemy. 
And  built  that  gate,  which  of  his  name  is  hight." 


But  Verstegan,  in  his  very  amusnig  '  Restitution 
of  Decayed  Intelligence  concerning  Britain,'  ob- 
jects to  the  connexion  botli  of  Lud's  town  and  Lud- 
gate  with  King  Lud: — 

"As  touching  the  name  of  our  most  ancient, 
chief,  and  fiimous  city,  it  could  never  of  Lud's-town 
take  the  name  of  London,  because  it  liad  never  an- 
ciently the  name  of  Lud's-town,  neither  could  it,  for 
that  town  is  not  a  British,  but  a  Saxon  word  ;  but  if 
it  took  any  appellation  after  King  Lud,  it  most  then 
have  been  called  Caer-Lud,  and  not  Lud's-town ; 
but,  considering  of  how  little  credit  the  relations  of 
Geffery  of  Monmouth  are,  who  from  Lud  doth  de- 
rive it,  it  may  rather  be  thought  that  he  liath  ima- 
gined this  name  to  have  come  from  King  Lud,  be- 
cause of  some  nearness  of  sound,  for  our  Saxon 
ancestors,  having  divers  ages  before  Geffery  was 
born  called  it  by  the  name  of  London,  he,  not  know- 
ing from  whence  it  came,  might  straight  imagine  it 
to  have  come  from  Lud,  and  therefore  ought  to  be 
Caer-Lud,  or  Lud's-town,  as  after  liim  others  called 
it ;  and  some  also  of  the  name  of  London,  in  Britisli 
sound  made  it  L'hundain,  both  appellations,  as  I  am 
persuaded,  being  of  the  Britains  first  taken  up  and 
used  after  the  Saxons  had  given  it  the  name  of 
London. 

"But  here  I  cannot  a  little  marvel  how  Tacitus 
(or  any  such  ancient  writers)  sliould  call  it  by  tlie 
name  of  Londinum  (that  having  been,  as  it  sliould 
seem,  the  Latin  name  thereof  since  it  hath  been 
called  London),  wliich  appellation  he  could  never 
have  from  tlie  ancient  Britains,  seeing  they  never  so 
called  it.  Julius  Caesar  seemed  not  to  know  of  the 
name  of  Londinum,  but  nameth  the  city  of  the 
Trinobants;  and  a  marvel  it  is,  that,  between  the 
time  of  Caesar  and  Tacitus,  it  should  come  to  get 
the  new  name  of  Londinum,  no  man  can  tell  how. 
To  deliver  my  conjecture  liow  this  may  chance  to 
have  happened,  I  am  loth,  for  that  it  may  perad- 
venture  be  of  some  disallowed,  and  so,  omitting  it,  I 
will  leave  the  reader  to  note  that  the  reign  of  King 
Lud,  from  whom  some  will  needs  derive  the  name 
of  London,  was  before  Julius  Caesar  came  into  Bri- 
tain, and  not  after,  for  Caesar   first  entered  Britain 

223 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


in  the  time  of  Cassibelan,  who  was  brother  unto 
Lud,  and  succeeded  next  after  him  ;  and  in  all  like- 
lihood, if  Lud  had  given  it  after  himself  the  new 
name  of  Caer-Lud,  or,  as  some  more  fondly  have 
supposed,  of  Lud's-town,  Julius  Caesar,  who  came 
thither  so  soon  after  his  death,  could  not  have  been 
so  utterly  ignorant  of  the  new  naming  of  that  city, 
but  have  known  it  as  well  as  such  writers  as  came 
after  him. 

"  Evident  it  is,  that  our  Saxon  ancestors  called  it 
Lunden,  (in  pronunciation  sounded  London,)  some- 
times adding  thereunto  the  ordinary  termination 
which  they  gave  to  all  well-fenced  cities,  or  rather 
such  as  had  forts  or  castles  annexed  unto  them,  by 
calling  it  Lundenbirig,  and  Lunden-ceaster,  that  is, 
after  our  latter  pronunciation,  Londonbury  or  Lon- 
don-chester.  This  name  of  Lunden,  since  varied 
into  London,  they  gave  it  in  regard  and  memory  of 
the  ancient  famous  metropolitan  city  of  Lunden, 
in  Sconeland  or  Sconia,  sometime  of  greatest  traffic 
of  all  the  east  parts  of  Germany. 

"  And  I  find  in  Crautzius  that  Eric,  the  fourth  of 
that  name,  King  of  Denmark,  went  in  person  to 
Rome  to  solicit  Pope  Paschal  the  Second  that 
Denmark  might  be  no  longer  under  the  ecclesias- 
tical jurisdiction  of  the  bishop  of  Hambrough,  but 
that  the  Archbishop  of  Lunden  should  be  the  chief 
Prelate  of  Denmark,  Sweden,  and  Norway,  the 
which  in  fine  was  granted.  As  for  the  name  of 
Ludgate,  which  some  will  needs  have  so  to  have 
beerrcalled  of  King  Lud,  and  accordingly  infer  the 
name  of  the  city,  I  answer,  that  it  could  never  of 
Lud  be  called  Ludgate,  because  gate  is  no  British 
word,  and,  had  it  taken  name  of  Lud,  it  must  have 
been  Ludporth,  and  not  Ludgate.  But  how  cometh 
it  that  all  the  gates  of  London,  yea,  and  all  the 
streets  and  lanes  of  the  city,  having  English  names, 
Ludgate  only  must  remain  British,  or  the  one  half 
of  it,  to  wit,  Lud, — gate,  as  before  hath  been  said, 
being  English?  This  surely  can  have  proceeded  of 
no  other  cause  than  of  the  lack  of  heed  that  men 
have  taken  unto  our  ancient  language ;  and  Gefifery 
of  Monmouth,  or  some  other  as  unsure  in  his  re- 
ports as  he,  by  hearing  only  of  the  name  of  Lud- 
gate, might  easily  fall  into  a  dream  or  imagination 
that  it  must  needs  liave  liad  that  name  of  King 
Lud.  There  is  no  doubt  but  that  our  Saxon  an- 
cestors (as  I  have  said),  changing  all  the  names  of 
the  other  gates  about  London,  did  also  change  this, 
and  called  it  Ludgate,  otherwise  also  written  Leod- 
geat ;  Lud  and  Leod  is  all  one,  and,  in  our  ancient 
language,  folk  or  people,  and  so  is  Ludgate  as 
much  to  say  as  Porta  populi,  the  gate  or  passage  of 
the  people.  And  if  a  man  do  observe  it,  he  shall 
find  that,  of  all  the  gates  of  the  city,  the  greatest 
passage  of  the  people  is  through  this  gate  ;  and  yet 
must  it  needs  have  been  much  more  in  time  past 
before  Newgate  was  builded,which,  as  Mr.  John  Stow 
saith,  was  first  builded  about  the  reign  of  King 
Henry  the  Second.  And  therefore  the  name  of 
Leod-gate  was  aptly  given  in  respect  of  the  great 
concourse  of  people  through  it." 
224 


^  Scene  I. — " Mu/mutius  made  our  laws,'''  &c. 

According  to  Holinshed,  Mulmutius,  the  first 
King  of  Britain  who  was  crowned  with  a  golden 
crown,  "  made  many  good  laws,  which  were  long 
after  used,  called  Mulmutius'  laws,  turned  out.  of 
the  British  speech  into  Latin,  by  Gildas  Priscus,  and 
long  time  after  translated  out  of  Latin  into  Eng- 
lish, by  Alfred,  King  of  England,  and  mingled  in 
his  statutes." 

^  Scene  I. — "  Tki/  Ccesar  knighted  me." 

Shakspere  still  follows  Holinshed  literally:  — 
"  This  man  was  brought  up  at  Rome,  and  there  was 
made  knight  by  Augustus  Caesar."  Douce  objects 
to  the  word  knight  as  a  downright  anachronism  ;  as 
well  as  to  another  similar  passage,  where  Cj'mbeline 
addresses  Belarius  and  his  sons : — 

"  Bow  your  knees: 
Arise  my  knights  o'  the  battle." 

Both  Holinshed  and  Shakspere,  in  applying  a  term 
of  the  feudal  ages  to  convey  the  notion  of  a  Roman 
dignity,  did  precisely  what  they  were  called  upon 
to  do.  They  used  a  word  which  conveyed  a  dis- 
tinct image  much  more  clearly  than  any  phrase  of 
stricter  propriety.  They  translated  ideas  as  well  as 
words. 

*  Scene  II. — "A/ranklin'shoi/sewiJe." 

The  franklin,  in  the  days  of  Shakspere,  had  he- 
come  a  less  important  personage  than  he  was  in 
those  of  Chaucer : — 

"  A  Frankelein  was  in  this  compagnie; 
White  was  his  herd  as  is  the  dayesie. 
Of  his  complexion  he  was  sanguin. 
Wei  loved  he  by  the  morwe  a  sop  in  win. 
To  liven  in  delit  was  ever  his  wone. 
For  he  w;is  Epicures  owen  sone, 
Tliatheld  opinion,  that  plein  delit 
Was  veraily  felicite  parfite. 
An  hnusholder,  and  that  a  grete  was  he  ; 
Seint  Julian  he  was  in  his  contree. 
His  brede,  his  ale,  was  alway  after  on  ; 
A  better  envjnied  man  was  no  wher  non. 
Withouten  bake  mete  never  was  his  hous. 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plenteous. 
It  snewed  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  diinke. 
Of  alle  deintees  tl\at  men  coud  of  thinke. 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yere. 
So  changed  he  his  mete  and  his  soupere. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  raewe, 
And  many  a  breme,  and  many  a  luce  in  stewe. 
Wo  was  his  coke,  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poinant  and  sharpe,  and  redy  all  his  gere. 
His  table  dormant  in  his  halle  alway 
Stode  redy  covered  all  the  longe  day. 

At  sessions  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire. 
Ful  often  time  he  was  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  anelace  and  a  gipciere  all  of  silk, 
Heng  at  his  girdel,  white  as  morwe  milk. 
A  shereve  hadde  he  ben,  and  a  countour. 
Was  no  wher  swiche  a  worthy  vavasour." ' 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  333. 

Rut,  a  century  and  a  half  later  than   Chaucer,  he 


CYMBELINE. 


was  still  a  dignified  memtier  of  tlie  landed  aristo- 
cracy. "  England  is  so  thick  spread  and  filled  with 
rich  and  landed  men,  that  there  is  scarce  a  small 
village  in  which  you  may  not  find  a  knight,  an  es- 
quire, or  some  substantial  householder,  commonly 
called  a  frank  ley  tie ;  all  men  of  considerable  es- 
tates." This  is  the  description  of  Sir  John  For- 
tescue,  in  the  reign  of  Henry  YI.  The  fravk/iu 
in  the  time  of  Shakspere  had,  for  the  most  part, 
gone  upward  into  the  squire,  or  downward  into  the 
yeoman  ;  and  tlie  name  had  probably  become  syno- 
nymous with  the  small  freeholder  and  cultivator. 
"  A  franklin's  housewife  "  would  wear  "  no  costlier 
suit "  than  Imogen  desired  for  concealment.  La- 
timer has  described  the  farmer  of  tlie  early  part  of 
the  sixteenth  century  : — "  My  father  was  a  yeoman, 
and  had  no  lands  of  his  own,  only  he  had  a  farm  of 
three  or  four  pound  by  year,  at  the  uttermost,  and 
hereupon  he  tilled  so  much  as  kept  half  a  dozen 
men.  He  had  walk  for  an  hundred  sheep,  and  my 
mother  milked  thirty  kine." 


*  Scene  III. 


The  sharded  beetle. 


There  is  a  controversy  about  the  meaning  of  the 
word  shard  as  applied  to  a  beetle.  In  Hamlet,  the 
priest  says  of  Ophelia — 

"  Shards,  flints,  and  pebbles  should  be  thrown  on  her." 

A  shard  here  is  a  thing  divided ;  and  it  is  used  for 
something  worthless, — fragments.  Mr.  Toilet  says 
that  shard  signifies  dung ;  and  that  "  the  shard- 
born  beetle"  in  Macbeth  is  the  beetle  born  in 
dung.  This  is  certainly  only  a  secondary  meaning 
of  shard.  We  cannot  doubt  that  Shakspere,  in  the 
passage  before  us,  uses  the  epithet  sharded  as  ap- 
plied to  the  flight  of  the  beetle.  The  sharded 
beetle, — the  beetle  whose  scaly  wing-cases  are  not 


formed  for  a  flight  far  above  the  earth, — is  con- 
trasted with  the  full-u'ing\l  eagle.  The  shards  sup- 
port the  insect  when  he  rises  from  the  ground  ;  but 
they  do  not  enable  him  to  cleave  the  air  with  a  bird- 
like wing.  The  shard-borne  beetle  of  Macbeth  is 
therefore,  the  beetle  supported  on  its  shards. 

"Scene    IV. — ^^  And,  for  I  am  richer  than  to  he 
hanged  by  the  walls, 
I mtist  be  ripp'd.^' 

Steevens  has  an  interesting  note  upon  this  pas- 
sage : — 

"  To  '  hang  by  the  walls'  does  not  mean,  to  be  con- 
verted into  hangings  for  a  room,  but  to  be  hung  tip, 
as  useless,  among  the  neglected  contents  of  a  ward- 
robe.    So,  in  Measure  for  Measure  : — 

'  That  have,  like  unscour'd  armour,  hung  b>/  the  wall.' 

"  When  a  boy,  at  an  ancient  mansion-house  in  Suf- 
folk I  saw  one  of  these  repositories,  which  (thanks 
to  a  succession  of  old  maids!)  had  been  preserved 
with  superstitious  reverence  for  almost  a  century 
and  a  half. 

"  Clothes  were  not  formerly,  as  at  present,  made  of 
slight  materials ;  were  not  kept  in  drawers,  or  given 
away  as  soon  as  lapse  of  time  or  change  of  fashion 
had  impaired  their  value.  On  the  contrary,  they 
were  hung  up  on  wooden  pegs  in  a  room  appropri- 
ated to  the  sole  purpose  of  receiving  them ;  and, 
though  such  cast-oif  things  as  were  composed  of 
rich  substances  were  occasionally  ripped  for  do- 
mestic uses  (viz.  mantles  for  infants,  vests  for  chil- 
dren, atid  counterpanes  for  beds),  articles  of  inferior 
quality  were  suffered  to  hang  by  the  walls  till  age 
and  moths  had  destroyed  what  pride  would  not  per- 
mit to  be  worn  by  servants  or  poor  relations." 


225 


^^M\^:I^U 


[The  Cave.    Scene  ii.] 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.  — The  Forest,  near  the  Cave. 

Enter  Cloten. 

Clo.  I  am  near  to  the  place  where  they  should 
meet,  if  Pisanio  have  mapped  it  truly.  How  fit 
his  garments  serve  me !  Why  should  his  mis- 
tress, who  was  made  by  him  that  made  the 
tailor,  not  be  fit  too  ?  the  rather  (saving  rever- 
ence of  the  word)  for  'tis  said,  a  woman's  fit- 
ness comes  by  fits.  Therein  I  mvist  play  the 
workman.  I  dare  speak  it  to  myself,  (for  it  is 
not  vain-glory  for  a  man  and  his  glass  to  confer 
in  his  own  chamber,)  I  mean,  the  lines  of  my 
body  are  as  well  drawn  as  his ;  no  less  young, 
more  strong,  not  beneath  him  in  fortunes,  be- 
yond him  in  the  advantage  of  the  time,  above 
him  in  birth,  alike  conversant  in  general  ser- 
vices, and  more  remarkable  in  single  opposi- 
tions :  yet  this  imperseverant^  thing  loves  him 
in  my  despite.  What  mortality  is  !  Posthu- 
mus,  thy  head,  which  now  is  growing  upon 
thy  shoulders,   shall  within   this  hour  be   off; 

"  Imperseveratit.      The  I'm  is  a  prefix  to  perseverant;   in 
tlic  same  way  as  impassioned. 

226 


thy  mistress  enfoi'ced ;  thy  garments  cut  to 
pieces  before  thy  face  :^  and  all  this  done, 
spurn  her  home  to  her  father :  who  may,  haply, 
be  a  little  angry  for  my  so  rovigh  usage  :  but 
my  mother,  having  power  of  his  testiness,  shall 
turn  all  into  my  commendations.  My  horse  is 
tied  up  safe  :  Out,  sword,  and  to  a  sore  pur- 
pose! Fortune,  put  them  into  my  hand!  This 
is  the  very  description  of  their  meeting-place ; 
and  the  fellow  dares  not  deceive  me.         [Exit. 

SCENE  U.— Before  the  Cave. 

Enter,  from  the  Cave,  Belarius,  Guiderius, 
Arviragus,  and  Imogen. 

Bel.  You  are  not  well :  \_To  Imogen.]  remain 
here  in  the  cave  ; 
We'll  come  to  you  after  hunting. 

Arv.  Brother,  stay  here  : 

[To  Imogen. 
Are  we  not  brothers  ? 

"  Some  would  read,  hefure  her  face, — Imogen's  face ;  but 
Cloten,  in  his  brutal  way,  thinks  it  a  satisfaclion  that,  after 
he  has  cut  off  his  rival's  head,  the  face  will  still  be  present 
at  the  destruction  of  the  garments. 


Act  IV.l 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  II. 


Imo.  So  man  and  man  shonlcl  be  ; 

But  clay  and  clay  differs  in  dignity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alike.     I  am  very  sick. 
Gui.  Go    you   to   hunting  :     I'll    abide    with 

him. 
Imo.  So  sick  I  am  not ; — yet  I  am  not  well : 
But  not  so  citizen  a  wanton,  as 
To  seem  to  die,  ere  sick  :  So  please  you,  leave 

me  ; 
Stick  to  your  journal  com-se  :  the  breach  of  cus- 
tom 
Is  breach  of  all.     I  am  ill ;   but  your  being  by 

me 
Cannot  amend  me  :  Society  is  no  comfort 
To  one  not  sociable  :   I  am  not  very  sick. 
Since  I  can  reason  of  it.     Praj'  you,  trust  me 

here : 
I'll  rob  none  but  myself;  and  let  me  die. 
Stealing  so  poorly. 

Gui.  I  love  thee  ;  I  have  spoke  it : 

How  much  the  quantity,  the  weight  as  much. 
As  I  do  love  my  father. 

Bel.  What?  how?  how? 

Arv.  If  it  be  sin  to  say  so,  sir,  I  yoke  me 
In  my  good  brother's  fault :  I  know  not  why 
I  love  this  youth  ;  and  I  have  heard  you  say, 
Love's   reason  's  without  reason;     the  bier  at 

door, 
And  a  demand  who  is't  shall  die,  I'd  say, 
'  My  father,  not  this  youth.' 

Bel.  O  noble  strain  ! 

\_Aside. 

0  worthiness  of  natm-e  !  breed  of  greatness ! 
Cowards  father  cowards,   and  base  things  sire 

base : 
Nature    hath   meal    and    bran,    contempt   and 

grace. 
I'm  not  their  father  ;  yet  who  this  should  be 
Doth  miracle  itself,  lov'd  before  me. — 
'Tis  the  ninth  hoin*  of  the  morn. 

Arv.  Brother,  farewell. 

Imo.  I  wish  ye  sport. 

Arv.  You  health. — So  please  you,  sir. 

Imo.    \_Aside.'\     These    are    kind    creatures. 
Gods,  what  lies  I  have  heard ! 
Our  courtiers  say  all  's  savage,  but  at  court : 
Experience,  O,  thou  disprov'st  report ! 
The   imperious   seas  breed  monstei's ;    for  the 

dish, 
Poor  tributary  rivers  as  sweet  fish. 

1  am  sick  still ;  heart-sick  : — Pisanio, 
I'll  now  taste  of  thy  drug. 

Gui.  I  could  not  stir  him  : 

He  said  he  was  gentle,  but  unfortunate  ; 
Dishonestly  afflicted,  but  yet  honest. 


Arv.  Thus  did  he  answer  me  :  yet  said,  here- 
after 
I  might  know  more. 

Bel.  To  the  field,  to  the  field  :— 

We'll  leave  you  for  this  time  ;  go  in  and  rest. 

Arv.  We'll  not  be  long  away. 

Bel.  Pray,  be  not  sick, 

For  you  must  be  our  housewife. 

Imo.  Well,  or  ill, 

I  am  bound  to  you. 

Bel.  And  shalt  be  ever. 

\_Exit  Imogen. 
This  youth,  howc'er  distress'd  he  appears,  hatli 

had 
Good  ancestors.'' 

Arv.  How  angel-like  he  sings  ! 

Gui.    But  his   neat  cookery  !  '     He  cut  our 
roots  in  characters ; 
And  sauc'd  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick 
And  he  her  dieter. 

Arv.  Nobly  he  yokes 

A  smiling  with  a  sigh  :  as  if  the  sigh 
Was  that  it  was,  for  not  being  such  a  smile ; 
The  smile  mocking  the  sigh,  that  it  would  fly 
From  so  divine  a  temple,  to  commix 
With  winds  that  sailors  rail  at. 

Gui.  I  do  note 

That  grief  and  patience,  rooted  in  him  both, 
Mingle  their  spurs''  together. 

»  'Hie  passage  stands  thus  in  the  original — 

"  This  youth,  liowe'er  dlstrest,  appears  he  hath  liad 
Good  ancestors." 

In  all  the  moilerii  editions  we  find  the  following  punctua- 
ticn,  without  any  comment — 

"  Tliis  youth,  howe'er  distrest,  appears,  he  hath  had 
Good  ancestors." 

To  us  this  is  uninti'lUgible;  and  we  therefore  venture  upon 
the  transposition  in  our  text;  assuming  that  the  printer, 
ha\iug  left  out  tlie  he  in  his  first  proof,  inserted  it  as  a  cor- 
rection in  the  wrong  place.  This  is  one  of  tlie  commonest 
of  typograpliical  errors,  and  the  folio  edition  of  Cymbeline, 
l)eing  printed  fr(jm  a  manuscript  after  tlie  author's  death, 
was  open  to  such  mistakes.  Tiie  wonder  is  that  they  are  not 
more  frequent. 

^  Spurs.  Pope  calls  this  an  old  word  for  the  fibres  of  a  tree. 
We  cannot  find  any  autlir>rily  for  liis  assertion.  The  support 
of  a  post  placed,  in  the  ground  is  still  technically  called  a 
spur.  The  large  leading  roots  of  a  tree  may,  in  the  same 
way,  have  been  called  spurs,  from  their  lateral  projections, 
whicli  hold  tlie  plant  firui  and  upright.  Shakspere  uses  the 
word  in  tliis  sense  iu  The  Tempest — 

"  The  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake,  and  by  the  spurs 
Pluck'd  up  the  pine  and  cedar." 

'  Instead  of  untzcine  it  has  been  proposed  to  read  entwine. 
Monek  Mason  says,  "  Though  Shakspere  is  frequently  inac- 
curate in  the  use  of  his  prepositions,  to  untwine  with  would 
rather  exceed  his  usual  licentiousness."  This  "  liccntious- 
ne:?s  "  is  a  favourite  word  with  the  commentators;  they 
haviug  agreed  that  the  only  correct  standard  of  the  Englisli 
language  was  to  be  found  in  the  formal  construction  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  In  this  case,  however,  they  appear  to 
have  mistaken  the  poet's  meaning.  The  root  of  the  elder  is 
short-lived  and  perishes,  while  that  of  the  vine  continues  to 
flourish  and  increase: — let  the  stinking  elder,  grief,  untwine 
his  root  which  is  perishing  with  (in  company  w  ith)  the  vine 
which  is  increasing. 

227 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  11. 


Jrv.  Grow,  patience  ! 

And  let  the  stinking  elder,  grief,  untwine 
His  perishing  root  with  the  increasing  vine  !•= 

Bel,  It  is  great  morning.      Come ;   away. — 
Who's  there  1 

Enter  Cloten. 

Clo.  I  cannot  find  those  runagates :  that  villain 
Hath  mock'd  me  : — I  am  faint. 

Bel.  Those  runagates ! 

Means  he  not  us  ?     I  partly  know  him  ;  'tis 
Cloten,  the  son  o'  the  queen.     I  fear  some  am- 
bush. 
I  saw  him  not  these  many  years,  and  yet 
I  know  'tis  he  : — We  are  held  as  outlaws : — 
Hence. 

Gui.  He  is  but  one  :    You  and  my  brother 
search 
What  companies  are  near:  pray  you,  away; 
Let  me  alone  with  him. 

\_Exeunt  Belarius  and  Arviragus. 

Clo.  Soft !  What  are  you 

That  fly  me  thus?  some  villain  mountaineers? 
I  have  heard  of  such. — What  slave  art  thou? 

Gui.  A  thing 

More  slavish  did  I  ne'er,  than  answering 
A  slave  without  a  knock. 

Clo.  Thou  art  a  robber, 

A  law-breaker,  a  villain  :  Yield  thee,  thief. 

Gui.    To  who?    to  thee?      What  art  thou? 
Have  not  I 
An  arm  as  big  as  thine  ?  a  heart  as  big  ? 
Thy  words,    I  grant,  are    bigger :  for    I    wear 

not 
My  dagger  in  my  mouth.     Say,  what  thou  art. 
Why  I  should  yield  to  thee  ? 

Clo.  Thou  villain  base, 

Know"st  me  not  by  my  clothes  ? 

Gui.  No,  nor  thy  tailor,  rascal, 

Who  is  thy  grandfather;  he  made  those  clothes. 
Which,  as  it  seems,  make  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  precious  varlet. 

My  tailor  made  them  not. 

Gui.  Hence,  then,  and  thank 

The  man  that  gave  them  thee.     Thou  art  some 

fool; 
I  am  loath  to  beat  thee. 

Clo.  Thou  injurious  thief, 

Hear  but  my  name,  and  tremble. 

Gui.  What's  thy  name? 

Clo.  Cloten,  thou  villain. 

Gui.  Cloten,  thou  double  villain,  be  thy  name, 
I  cannot  tremble  at  it ;  were  't  toad,  or  adder, 

spider, 
'Twould  move  me  sooner. 
228 


Clo.  To  thy  further  fear. 

Nay,  to  thy  mere  confusion,  thou  shalt  know 
I'm  son  to  the  queen. 

Gui.  I  'm  sorry  for  't ;  not  seeming 

So  worthy  as  thy  birth. 

Clo.  Art  not  afeard  ? 

Gui.  Those  that  I  reverence  those  I  fear;  the 
wise  : 
At  fools  I  laugh,  not  fear  them. 

Clo.  Die  the  death  : 

When  I  have  slain  thee  with  my  proper  hand, 
I'll  follow  those  that  even  now  fled  hence, 
And  on  the  gates  of  Lud's  town  set  your  heads  : 
Yield,  rustic  mountaineer.         \_Exeunt,  jiglitiny. 

Enter  Belarius  and  Arviragus. 

Bel.  No  company's  abroad. 

Arv.   None  in  the  world :    You  did  mistake 
him,  sure. 

Bel.  I  cannot  tell:  Long  is  it  since  I  saw  him, 
But  time  hath  nothing  blurr'd    those  lines    of 

favour 
Which  then  he  wore ;  the  snatches  in  his  voice. 
And  burst  of  speaking,  were  as  his  :  I  am  abso- 
lute 
'Twas  very  Cloten. 

Arv.  In  this  place  we  left  them  : 

I  wish  my  brother  make  good  time  with  him. 
You  say  he  is  so  fell. 

Bel.  Being  scarce  made  up, 

I  mean,  to  man,  he  had  not  apprehension 
Of  roaring  terrors,  for  defect  of  judgment, 
As  oft  the  cause  of  fear  :*  But  see,  thy  brother. 

Re-enter  Guiderius,  witli  Cloten 's  head. 

Gui.    This   Cloten    was    a    fool ;   an   empty 

purse, — 
There  was  no  money  in  't :  not  Hercules 
Could  have  knock'd  out  his  brains,  for  he  had 

none  : 


"  The  word  defect,  of  the  ong:nal,  was  clianged  by  Theo- 
bald to  the  effect;  and  the  iwiosage  so  corrected  is  thus  given 
in  most  of  the  modern  editions — 

"  He  had  not  apprehension 

Of  roaring  tenors  ;  for  the  effect  of  judgment 

Is  oft  the  cause  of  fear." 
Hanmer  reads — 

"  For  defect  oi  judgment 

Is  oft  the  cure  of  fear ;" 
which  reading  is  adopted  by  Malone.  It  is  evident  that  the 
passage  as  it  stjinds  in  the  original  is  contradictory.  But  it 
appears  to  us  that  the  correctious,  both  of  Theobald  and 
Hanmer,  are  somewhat  forced ;  and  we  rather  adopt  the  very 
ingenious  suggestion  of  the  author  of  a  pamphlet  printed  at 
Edinburgh,  1814,  entitled,  '  Explanations  and  Emendations 
of  some  Passages  in  the  Text  of  Sluikspere,'  &c.  In  this 
reading  of  as  for  is,  Belaiiiis  says  that  Cloten,  before  he  ar- 
rived to  man's  estate,  had  not  apprehension  of  terrors  on  ac- 
count o/ defect  of  judgment,  which  defect  is  as  often  the  cause 
of  fear.  The  passage  as  it  thus  stands  appears  to  us  one  of 
the  many  examples  of  condensed  truths  which  this  play  pre- 
sents. 


AOT  IV. 1 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCKNE    II. 


Yet  I  not  doing  tliis,  the  fool  had  borne 
My  head,  as  I  do  his. 

Bel.  What  liast  thou  done  ? 

Gui.  I  am  perfect,  what :  cut  off  one  Cloten's 
head, 
Son  to  the  queen,  after  his  own  report ; 
Who  call'd  me  traitor,  mountaineer;  and  swore, 
With  his  own  single  hand  he'd  take  us  in. 
Displace  our  heads,  where  (thank  the  gods !) 

they  grow, 
And  set  them  on  Lud's  town. 

Bel.  We  are  all  undone. 

Gui.  Why,  worthy  father,  what  have  we  to 
lose. 
But,  that  he  swore  to  take,  our  lives  ?     The  law 
Protects  not  us :  Then  why  should  we  be  tender 
To  let  an  arrogant  piece  of  flesh  threat  us ; 
Play  judge  and  executioner,  all  himself. 
For*  we  do  fear  the  law  ?     What  company 
Discover  you  abroad  ? 

Bel.  No  single  soul 

Can  we  set  eye  on,  but  in  all  safe  reason 
He  must  have  some  attendants.      Though  his 

humour'' 
Was  nothing  but  mutation, — ay,  and  that 
From  one  bad  thing  to  worse, — not  frenzy,  not 
Absolute  madness  could  so  far  have  rav'd, 
To  bring  him  here  alone  :  Although,  perhaps. 
It  may  be  heard  at  coiurt,  that  such  as  we 
Cave  here,  hunt  here,  are  outlaws,  and  in  time 
May  make  some  stronger  head :   the  which  he 

hearing, 
(As   it   is   like   him,)    might    break   out,    and 

swear 
He'd  fetch  us  in  ;  yet  is  't  not  probable 
To  come  alone,  either  he  so  undertaking. 
Or  they  so  suffering  :  then  on  good  ground  we 

fear, 
If  we  do  fear  this  body  hath  a  tail 
More  perilous  than  the  head. 

ylrv.  Let  ordinance 

Come  as  the  gods  foresay  it :  howsoe'er. 
My  brother  hath  done  well. 

Bel.  I  had  no  mind 

To  hunt  this  day  :  the  boy  Fidele's  sickness 
Did  make  my  way  long  forth. 

Gui.  With  his  own  swoi-d. 

Which  he  did  wave  against  my  throat,  I  have 

ta'en 
His  head  from  him  :  I  '11  throw  't  into  the  creek 


«  For,  in  the  sense  of  because. 

^  Humour.  In  the  original  honour.  Theobald  made  tlie 
emendation,  which  is  certainly  called  for ;  and  is  further  jus- 
tified by  the  fact  that,  in  tlie  early  editions  of  Shakspere, 
humour  and  honour  are  several  times  misprinted  each  for  the 
other. 


Traoedies. — VoT..  I. 


2  G 


Behind  our  rock  ;  and  let  it  to  the  sea. 

And  tell  the  fishes  he's  the  queen's  son,  Cloten 

That's  all  I  reck.  \^Exit. 

Bel.  I  fear,  'twill  be  reveng'd : 

'Would,    Polydore,    thou   had'st  not    done   't ! 

though  valour 
Becomes  thee  well  enough. 

Arv.  'Would  I  had  done  't, 

So  the  revenge  alone  pursued  me  .'—Polydore, 
I  love  thee  brotherly;  but  envy  much 
Thou  hast  robb'd  me  of  this  deed :  I  would,  re- 
venges. 
That  possible  strength  might  meet,  woidd  seek 

us  through 
And  put  us  to  our  answer. 

Bel.  Well,  'tis  done  :— 

We'll    hunt    no    more    to-day,    nor    seek    for 

danger 
Where   there 's   no    profit.    I   prithee,    to   our 

rock; 
You  and  Fidele  play  the  cooks  :  I'll  stay 
Till  hasty  Polydore  rettirn,  and  bring  him 
To  dinner  presently. 

Arv.  Poor  sick  Fidele  ! 

I'll  willingly  to  him  :  To  gain  his  colour, 
I'd  let  a  parish  of  such  Cloten s  blood, " 
And  praise  myself  for  charity.  [Exit. 

Bel.  O  thou  goddess, 

Thou  divine  Nature,  how  thyself  thou  blazon'st  : 
In   these   two   princely    boys!      They    are   as 

gentle 
As  zephyrs,  blowing  below  the  violet. 
Not    wagging  his     sweet   head :    and    yet    as 

rough. 
Their  royal  blood  enchaf 'd,  as  the  rud'st  wind. 
That  by  the  top  doth  take  the  mountain  pine 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale.     'Tis  wonder  i* 
That  an  invisible  instinct  should  frame  them 
To  royalty  unlearn'd ;  honour  imtaught ; 
Civility  not  seen  from  other  :  valour. 
That  wildly  grows  in  them,  but  yields  a  crop 
As  if  it  had  been  sow'd  !     Yet  still  it's  strange 
What  Cloten's  being  here  to  us  portends, 
Or  what  his  death  will  bring  us. 

Re-enter  Guiderius. 

Gui.  Where's  my  brother  ? 

I  have  sent  Cloten's  clotpoU  down  the  stream. 
In  embassy  to  his  mother ;  his  body  's  hostage 
For  his  return.  [^Solemn,  music. 

"  Steevens  prints  this — 

"  I'd  let  a  parish  of  such  Clotens'  blood." 
But  the  meaning  is,  I  would  let  blood  a  parish  of  such  Clo- 
tens. 

•'  fVonder.     So  the  original.     Pope  changed  it  to  wonderful, 
which  is  the  received  reading. 

229 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  II. 


Bel.  My  ingenious  instrument  I 

Hark,  Polydore,  it  sounds !     But  what  occasion 
Hatli  Cadwal  now  to  give  it  motion  ?     Hark  ! 

G^ii.  Is  lie  at  home  ? 

Bel.  He  went  hence  even  now. 

Gui.  What  does  he  mean  ?  since  death  of  my 
dear'st  mother 
It  did  not  speak  before.     All  solemn  things 
Should  answer  solemn  accidents.     The  matter? 
Triumphs  for  nothing,  and  lamenting  toys, 
Is  jollity  for  apes  and  grief  for  boys. 
Is  Cadwal  mad? 

Re-enter  Arviragus,  hearing  Imogen  as  dead 
in  Ms  ai'ms. 

Bel.  Look,  here  he  comes, 

And  brings  the  dire  occasion  in  his  arms, 
Of  what  we  blame  him  for ! 

Jrv.  The  bird  is  dead, 

That  we  have  made  so  much  on.     I  had  rather 
Have   skipp'd   from   sixteen  years  of    age   to 

sixty. 
To  have  turn'd  my  leaping  time  into  a  crutch. 
Than  have  seen  this. 

Gui.  O  sweetest,  fairest  lily ! 

My   brother   wears  thee   not   the   one-half  so 

well. 
As  when  thou  grew'st  thyself. 

Bel.  O,  melancholy ! 

Who  ever  yet  could  sound  thy  bottom  ?  find 
The    ooze,    to    show  what   coast    thy  sluggish 

crare  * 
Might    easiliest   harbour   in  ?  —  Thou    blessed 

thing ! 
Jove  knows  what  man  thou  might'st  have  made; 

but  I, 
Thou  diedst,  a  most  rare  boy,  of  melancholy !  ^ 
How  found  you  him  ? 

Arv.  Stark,*^  as  you  see  : 

Thus  smiling,  as  some  fly  had  tickled  slumber. 
Not  as  death's  dart,  being  laugh'd  at:  his  right 

cheek 
Reposing  on  a  cushion. 

Gui.  Where  ? 

Arv.  O'  the  floor; 

His  arms  thus  leagued:  I  thought  he  slept;  and 
put 


»  Crare.  The  original  reads  care :  but  the  image  is  in- 
complete unless  we  adopt  the  correction.  Crare  is  a  small 
vessel ;  and  the  word  is  often  used  by  Holinshed  and  by 
Drayton. 

I*  We  print  the  passage  as  in  the  original,  the  meaning  of 
which  is,  Jove  knows  what  man  thou  might'st  have  made, 
but  I  know  thou  diedst,  Sec.  Malone  thinks  thatihe  pronoun 
/  was  probably  substituted  by  mistake  for  the  interjection, 
Ah!  which  is  commonly  printed  ay  in  the  old  copies;  ay 
being  also  as  commonly  printed  /. 

•  Stark— Sim. 

230 


My  clouted  brogvies''  from  off  my  feet,  whose 

rudeness 
Answer'd  my  steps  too  loud. 

Gui.  Why,  he  but  sleeps  : 

If  he  be  gone,  he'll  make  his  grave  a  bed; 
With  female  fairies  will  his  tomb  be  haunted, 
And  worms  will  not  come  to  thee. 

Arv.  With  fairest  flowers. 

Whilst  summer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave:  Thou  shalt  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose ; 

nor 
The  azur'd  hare-bell,  like  thy  veins  ;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine,  whom  not  to  slander, 
Out-sweeten'd   not    thy   breath :    the  ruddock 

would,^ 
With  charitable  bill  (O  bill,  sore-shaming 
Those  rich-left  heirs  that  let  their  fathers  lie 
Without  a  monument!)  bring  thee  all  this; 
Yea,  and  furr'd  moss  besides,  when  flowers  are 

none, 
To  winter-ground  thy  corse. 

Gtd.  Prithee,  have  done  ; 

And  do  not  play  in  wench-like  words  with  that 
Which  is  so  serious.     Let  us  bury  him, 
And  not  protract  with  admiration  what 
Is  now  due  debt. — To  the  grave. 

Arv.  Say,  where  shall  's  lay  him  ? 

Gui.  By  good  Euriphile,  our  mother. 

Arv.  Be't  so : 

And  let  us,  Polydore,  though  now  our  voices 
Have  got  the  mannish  crack,  sing  him  to  the 

ground. 
As  once  our  mother ;  use  like  note,  and  words. 
Save  that  Euriphile  must  be  Fidele. 

Gui.  Cadwal, 
I    cannot   sing:    I'll  weep,    and  word   it  with 

thee : 
For  notes  of  sorrow,  out  of  tune,  are  worse 
Than  priests  and  fanes  that  lie. 

Arv.  We'll  speak  it  then. 

Bel.  Great  griefs,  I  see,  medicine  the  less  :  for 
Cloten 
Is  quite  forgot.     He  was  a  queen's  son,  boys : 
And,  though  he  came  our  enemy,  remember 
He  was  paid  for  that :  Though  mean  and  mighty, 

rotting 
Together,  have  one  dust ;  yet  reverence 
(That  angel  of  the  world)  doth  make  distinction 
Of  place  'tween  high   and  low.     Our  foe  was 

princely; 
And  though  you  took  his  life,  as  being  our  foe, 
Yet  bury  him  as  a  prince. 

Gui.  Pray  you,  fetch  him  hither. 

*  Brngties — rude  shoes.  , 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  II. 


Thersites'  body  is  as  good  as  Ajax, 
When  neither  are  alive. 

Arv.  If  you'll  go  fetch  him, 

We'll  say  our  song  the  whilst. — Brother,  begin. 

[^Exit  Belarius. 

Gut.  Nay,  Cadwal,  we  must  lay  his  head  to 
the  east : 
My  father  hath  a  reason  for't. 

Arv.  'Tis  true. 

Gui.  Come  on  then,  and  remove  liim. 

Arv.  So, — Begin. 

SONG. 

Gui.  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun. 

Nor  tlie  furious  winter's  rages; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages  : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must. 
As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

An.  Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 

Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe,  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  : 
The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gui.  Fear  no  more  the  light'ning  flash  ; 
An.  Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 
Gui.  Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash ; 
Are.  Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  : 
Both,  All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

Gni.  No  exorciser  harm  thee  ! 
Arv.  Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee! 
Gui.  Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Arv.  Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Both.  Quiet  consummation  have ; 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave ! 

Re-enter  Belarius,  with  the  body  q/"CL0TEN. 

Gui.  We  have  done  our  obsequies  :^  Come,  lay 

him  down. 
Bel.  Here's  a fewflowers ;  but  about  midnight, 
more : 
The  herbs  that  have  on  them  cold  dew  o'  the 

night 
Are  sti'ewings  fitt'st  for  graves.  —  Upon   their 

faces : — 
You  were  as  flowers,  now  wither'd  :  even  so 
These  herb'lets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow. — 
Come  on,  away  :  apart  upon  our  knees. 
The  ground,  that   gave   them   first,   has  them 

again : 
Their  pleasures  here  are  past,  so  is  their  pain. 
\_Exeunt  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and 
Arviragus. 
Irno.  [^AwaMng.~]  Yes,  sir,  to  Milford-Haven ; 
Which  is  the  way  1 
I  thank  you. — By  yon  bush  ? — Pray,  how  far 
thither  ? 


"Ods  pittikins ! — can  it  be  six  miles  yet  l — 

I  have  gone  all  night: — 'Faith,  I'll  lie  down  and 

sleep. 
But,  soft!  no  bedfellow  : — O,  gods  and  goddesses! 
\_Seeing  the  body. 
These  flowers    are   like   the   pleasures    of  the 

world; 
This  bloody  man,   the  care  on  't.  —  I   hope   I 

dream  ; 
For,  so,  I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper, 
And  cook  to  honest  creatures :  But  "tis  not  so ; 
'Twas  but  a  bolt  of  nothing,  shot  at  nothing. 
Which   the  brain  makes   of  fumes  :    Our  very 

eyes 
Are  sometimes  like  our  judgments,  blind.    Good 

faith, 
I  tremble  still  with  fear :  But  if  there  be 
Yet  left  in  heaven  as  small  a  drop  of  pity 
As  a  wren's  eye,  fear'd  gods,  a  part  of  it ! 
The  dream's  here  still :  even  when  I  wake  it  is 
Without  me,  as  within  me  ;  not  imagin'd,  felt. 
A  headless  man !  —  The  garments  of  Posthu- 

mus ! 
I  know  the  shape  of  his  leg  :  this  is  his  hand ; 
His  foot  Merciu-ial :  his  Martial  thigh  ; 
The  brawns  of  Hercules  :  but  his  Jovial  face — 
Murther  in    heaven  1  —  How  ? —  'Tis   gone.  — 

Pisanio, 
All  curses  madded  Hecuba  gave  the  Greeks, 
And  mine  to  boot,  be  darted  on  thee !  Thou, 
Conspir'd  with  that  irregulous*  devil,  Cloten, 
Hast  here  cut  off"  my  lord. — To  write  and  read 
Be  henceforth  treacherous  ! — Damn'd  Pisanio 
Hath  with  his  forged  letters, — damn'd  Pisanio — 
From  this  most  bravest  vessel  of  the  world 
Struck  the  main-top  ! — O,  Posthumus  !  alas. 
Where  is  thy  head?  where'sthat?  Ah  me!  where's 

that? 
Pisanio  might  have  kill'd  thee  at  the  heart, 
And  left  this  head  on. — How  should  this  be  ? 

Pisanio  ? 
'Tis  he,  and  Cloten :  malice  and  lucre  in  them 
Have  laid   this   woe    here.     O,    'tis  pregnant, 

pregnant ! 
The  drug  he  gave  me,  which,  he  said,  was  pre- 
cious 
And  cordial  to  me,  have  I  not  found  it 
Murd'rous   to    the   senses  ?     That    confirms   it 

home: 
This  is  Pisanio's  deed,  and  Cloten's  :  O  ! — 
Give  coloiu"  to  my  pale  cheek  with  thy  blood, 
That  we  the  horrider  may  seem  to  those 
Which  chance  to  find  us :  O,  my  lord,  my  lord ! 

»  Irregulotts — irregular  —  disoriicrly.      The  word  is  only 
found  in  this  passage  of  Shakspere. 

2;u 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


Enter  Lucius,  a  Captain,  and  other  Officers,  and 
a  Soothsayer. 
Cap.    To    them,    the   legions    garrison'd   in 
Gallia, 
After  your  will,  have  cross'd  the  sea ;  attending 
You  here  at  Milford-Haven,  with  your  ships  : 
They  are  here  in  readiness. 

Luc.  But  what  from  Rome  ? 

Cap.  Tlie  senate  hath  stirr'd  up  the  confiners, 
And  gentlemen  of  Italy ;  most  willing  spirits 
That  promise  nohle  service  :  and  they  come 
Under  the  conduct  of  bold  lachimo, 
Sienna's  brother. 

Luc.  When  expect  you  them  ? 

Cap.  With  the  next  benefit  o'  the  wind. 
Luc.  This  forwardness 

Makes  our  hopes  fair.     Command,  our  present 

numbers 
Be  muster'd;  bid  the  captains  look  to't. — Now, 

sir. 
What  have  you  dream'd,  of  late,  of  this  war's 
purpose '? 
Sooth.  Last  night  the  very  gods  show'd  me  a 
vision : 
(I  fast,  and  pray'd,  for  their  intelligence,)  Thus : — 
I  saw  Jove's  bird,  the  Roman  eagle,*  wing'd 
From  the  spungy  south  to  this  part  of  the  west. 
There  vanish'd  in   the  sunbeams:   which  por- 
tends, 
(Unless  my  sins  abuse  my  divination,) 
Success  to  the  Roman  host. 

Luc.  Dream  often  so. 

And  never  false. — Soft,  ho  !  what  trunk  is  here 
Without  his  top  ?    The  ruin  speaks  that  some- 
time 
It  was  a  worthy  building. — How  !  a  page  ! — 
Or  dead,  or  sleeping  on  him  ?  But  dead,  rather : 
For  nature  doth  abhor  to  make  his  bed 
With  the  defunct,  or  sleep  upon  the  dead. — 
Let's  see  the  boy's  face. 

Cap.  He  is  alive,  my  lord. 

Luc.  He'll  then  instruct  us  of  this  body. — 
Yoimg  one, 
Inform  us  of  thy  fortunes ;  for,  it  seems 
They  crave  to  be  demanded :  Who  is  this 
Thou  mak'st  thy  bloody  pillow?    Or  who  was 

he. 
That,  otherwise  than  noble  natiu-e  did. 
Hath  alter'd  that  good  picture  ?    Wliat's  thy  in- 
terest 
In  this  sad  wreck  ?  How  came  it  ?  Who  is  it? 
What  art  thou  ? 

Imo.  I  am  nothing  :  or  if  not. 

Nothing  to  be  were  better.     This  was  my  master. 
A  very  valiant  Briton,  and  a  good, 
232 


That  here  by  mountaineers  lies  slain : — Alas  ! 
There  are  no  more  such  masters  :  I  may  wander 
From  east  to  Occident,  cry  out  for  service, 
Try  many,  all  good,  serve  truly,  never 
Find  such  another  master. 

Luc.  'Lack,  good  youth  ! 

Thou  mov'st  no  less  with  thy  complaining,  than 
Thy  master  in  bleeding ;  Say  his  name,  good 
friend. 

Imo.  Richard  du  Champ.     If  I  do  lie,  and  do 
No  harm  by  it,  though  the  gods  hear,  I  hope 
They'll  pardon  it.     \_Aside.^     Say  you,  sir? 

Luc.  Thy  name  ? 

l7no.  Fidele,  sir. 

Luc.  Thou    dost   approve    thyself   the   very 
same. 
Thy  name  well  fits  thy  faith  ;    thy  faith  thy 

name. 
Wilt  take  thy  chance  with  me?     I  will  not  say 
Thou  shalt  be  so  well  master' d ;  but,  be  sure, 
No  less  belov'd.     The  Roman  emperor's  letters, 
Sent  by  a  consul  to  me,  should  not  sooner 
Than  thine   own   worth  prefer  thee.    Go  with 
me. 

Imo.  I'll  follow,  sir.     But  first,  an't  please  the 
gods, 
I'll  hide  my  master  fi-om  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  can  dig  :  and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  have  strew'd 

his  grave, 
And  on  it  said  a  century  of  prayers. 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep,  and  sigh ; 
And,  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you. 
So  please  you  entertain  me. 

Luc.  Ay,  good  youth  ; 

And  rather  father  thee  than  master  thee. — 
My  friends, 

The  boy  hath  taught  us  manly  duties :  Let  us 
Find  out  the  prettiest  daisied  plot  we  can. 
And  make  him  with  our  pikes  and  partisans 
A  grave:   Come;  arm  him.* — Boy,  he  is  pre- 

ferr'd 
By  thee  to  us ;  and  he  shall  be  interr'd 
As   soldiers    can.      Be    cheerful;    wipe    thine 

eyes: 
Some  falls  are  means  the  happier  to  arise. 

l_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.^ — A  Boom  in  Cymbeline's  Palace. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Lords,  and  Pisanio. 

Cym.  Again ;  and  bring  me  word  how  'tis  with 
her. 
A  fever  with  the  absence  of  her  son  ; 

■  Arm  him — take  hiai  in  your  arms. 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  IV. 


A  madness,  of  which  her  life's  in  danger: — 

Heavens, 
How  deeply  you  at  once  do  touch  me  !  Imogen, 
The  great  part  of  my  comfort,  gone  ;  my  queen 
Upon  a  desperate  bed,  and  in  a  time 
When  fearful  wars  point  at  me  ;  her  son  gone. 
So  needlul  for  this  present :  It  strikes  me,  past 
The  hope  of  comfort. — But  for  thee,  fellow. 
Who  needs  must  know  of  her  departure,  and 
Dost   seem  so  ignorant,  we'll  enforce  it  from 

thee 
By  a  sharp  torture. 

Pis.  Sir,  my  life  is  yours, 

I  humbly  set  it  at  your  will :  But  for  my  mis- 
tress, 
I  nothing  know  where  she  remains,  why  gone. 
Nor  when  she  purposes  return.     'Beseech  your 

highness. 
Hold  me  your  loyal  servant. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

The  day  that  she  was  missing  he  was  here  : 
I  dare  be  bound  he's  true,  and  shall  perform 
All  parts  of  his  subjection  loyally. 
For  Cloten, — 

There  wants  no  diligence  in  seeking  him. 
And  will,  no  doubt,  be  found. 

61/771.  The  time  is  troublesome  : 

We'll  slip  you  for  a  season  ;  but  our  jealousy 

[7'0  PiSANIO. 

Does  yet  depend.  * 

1  Lord.  So  please  your  majesty, 

The  Roman  legions,  all  from  Gallia  drawn. 
Are  landed  on  your  coast ;  with  a  supply 
Of  Roman  gentlemen,  by  the  senate  sent. 

C1//71.   Now  for  the  counsel  of  my  son  and 
queen  ! 
I  am  amaz'd  with  matter. 

1  Lord.  Good  my  liege, 

Your  preparation  can  affront  no  less 
Than  what  you  hear  of:  come  more,  for  more 

you're  ready ; 
The  want  is,  but  to  put  those  powers  in  motion 
That  long  to  move. 

Cym.  I  thank  you:  Let 's  withdraw : 

And  meet  the  time,  as  it  seeks  us.     We  fear  not 
What  can  from  Italy  annoy  us ;  but 
We  grieve  at  chances  here. — Away.      \_Exeu7it. 

Pis.  I  heard  no  letter''  from  my  master  since 
I  wTote  him  Imogen  was  slain :  'Tis  strange : 
Nor  hear  I  from  my  mistress,  who  did  promise 
To  yield  me  often  tidings  :  Neither  know  I 

•  Docs  yet  depend — is  yet  depending,  as  we  say  of  an  action 
at  law. 

■>  Hanmer  reads,  I've  had  mi  letter.  Malone  suggests  thnt 
by  letter  is  not  meant  an  epistle ;  but  that  the  phrase  is 
equivalent  to  /  heard  nv  sylluhle. 


What  is  betid  to  Cloten ;  but  remain 
Perplex'd  in  all.     The  heavens  still  must  work  : 
Wherein  I  am  false  I  am  honest ;  not  true  to  be 

true. 
These     present    wars    shall     find    I    love    my 

country. 
Even   to  the  note  o'  the  king,  or   I'll  fall   in 

them. 
All  other  doubts  by  time  let  them  be  clear'd : 
Fortune  brings  in  some  boats  that  are  not  steer'd. 

l^Exit. 

SCENE  IV.— Before  the  Cave. 

Enter  Belarius,  Guiderius,  a7id  Arviragus. 

Gui.  The  noise  is  round  about  us. 

Bel.  Let  us  from  it. 

Arv.  What  pleasure,  sir,  find  we  in  life,  to 
lock  it 
From  action  and  adventure  ? 

Gui.  Nay,  what  hope 

Have  we  hi  hiding  us?  this  way,  the  Romans 
Must  or  for  Britons  slay  us  ;  or  receive  us 
For  barbarous  and  unnatural  revolts 
During  their  use,  and  slay  us  after. 

Bel.  Sons, 

We'll  higher  to  the  mountains  ;  there  secure  us. 
To  the  king's  party  there's  no  going  :  newness 
Of  Cloten's  death  (we  being  not  known,  not 

muster 'd 
Among  the  bands)  may  drive  us  to  a  render 
Where  we  have  livd;  and  so  extort  from  us  that 
Which  we  have  done,  whose  answer  would  be 

death 
Drawn  on  with  torture. 

Gui.  This  is,  sir,  a  doubt 

In  such  a  time  nothing  becoming  you, 
Nor  satisfying  us. 

jlrv.  It  is  not  likely 

That  when  they  hear  the  Roman  horses  neigh, 
Behold  their  quarter'd  fires,  have  both  their  eyes 
And  ears  so  cloy'd  importantly  as  now. 
That  they  will  waste  their  time  upon  our  note. 
To  know  from  whence  we  are. 

Bel.  O,  I  am  known 

Of  many  in  the  army  :  many  years. 
Though  Cloten  then  but  yotmg,  you  see,  not  wore 

him 
From  my  remembrance.    And,  besides,  the  king 
Hath  not  deserv'd  my  service,  nor  your  loves ; 
Who  find  in  my  exile  the  want  of  breeding. 
The  certainty  of  this  hard  life  ;  aye  hopeless 
To  have  the  courtesy  your  cradle  promis'd. 
But  to  be  still  hot  summer's  taiilings,  and 
The  shrinking  slaves  of  winter. 

233 


Act  IV.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  IV. 


Gtii.  Than  be  so, 

Better  to  cease  to  be.     Pray,  sir,  to  the  army  : 
I  and  my  brother  are  not  known ;  yourself 
So  out  of  thought,  and  thereto  so  o'ergrown, 
Cannot  be  question'd. 

A?-v.  By  this  sun  that  sliines, 

I'll  thither  :  What  thing  is  it,  that  I  never 
Did  see  man  die?  scarce  ever  look'd  on  blood. 
But  that  of  coward  hares,  hot  goats,  and  ve- 
nison ? 
Never  bestrid  a  horse,  save  one,  that  had 
A  rider  like  myself,  who  ne'er  wore  rowel 
Nor  iron  on  his  heel  ?  I  am  asham'd 
To  look  upon  the  holy  sun,  to  have 
The  benefit  of  his  bless'd  beams,  remaining 
So  long  a  poor  unknown. 


Gui.  By  heavens,  I'll  go  : 

If  you  will  bless  me,  sir,  and  give  me  leave, 
I'll  take  the  better  care  ;  but  if  you  will  not, 
The  hazard  therefore  due  fall  on  me,  by 
The  hands  of  Romans  ! 

^rv.  So  say  I ;  Amen. 

Bel.  No  reason  I,  since  of  your  lives  you  set 
So  slight  a  valuation,  should  reserve 
My  crack'd  one  to  more  care.     Have  with  you, 

boys  : 
If  in  your  countiy  wars  you  chance  to  die. 
That  is  my  bed  too,  lads,  and  there  I'll  lie  : 
Lead,  lead. — The  time  seems  long  :  their  blood 
thinks  sconi,  [^Aside. 

Till  it  fly  out  and  show  them  princes  born. 

[^Exeunt. 


[The  Forest.] 


234 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT   IV. 


'  Scene  II. — "  But  his  neat  cookery." 

Mrs.  Lennox  has  the  following  remark  upon  this 
passage: — "This  princess,  forgetting  that  she  had 
put  on  boy's  clothes  to  be  a  spy  upon  the  actions  of 
her  husband,  commences  cook  to  two  young  foresters 
and  their  father,  who  live  in  a  cave ;  and  we  are  told 
how  nicely  she  sauced  the  broths.  Certainly  this 
princess  had  a  mosteconomical  education."  Douce 
has  properly  commented  upon  this  impertinence: — 
"Now what  is  this  but  to  expose  her  own  ignorance 
of  ancient  manners?  If  she  had  missed  the  advan- 
tage of  qualifying  herself  as  a  commentator  on  Shak- 
speare's  plots  by  a  perusal  of  our  old  romances,  she 
ought  at  least  to  have  remembered,  what  every  well- 
informed  woman  of  the  present  age  is  acquainted 
with,  the  education  of  the  princesses  in  Homer's 
'  Odyssey.'  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to  judge  of  an- 
cient simplicity  by  a  mere  knowledge  of  modern 
manners  ;  and  such  fastidious  critics  had  better 
close  the  book  of  Shakspeare  for  ever."  ('  Illus- 
trations,' vol.  ii.  page  104.) 

2  Scene  II. — "  The  ruddock  would"  &c. 

Percy  asks,  "  Is  this  an  allusion  to  the  babes  of 
the  wood?  or  was  the  notion  of  the  redbreast  cover- 
ing dead  bodies  general  before  the  writing  of  that 
ballad?"  It  has  been  shown  that  the  notion  has 
been  found  in  an  earlier  book  of  natural  history ; 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  an  old  popu- 
lar belief.  The  redbreast  has  always  been  a  fa- 
vourite with  the  poets,  and 

"  Robin  the  mean,  that  best  of  all  loves  men," 

as  Browne  sings,  was  naturally  employed  in  the 
last  offices  of  love.  Drayton  says,  directly  imi- 
tating Shakspere : — 

"  Covering  with  moss  the  dead's  unclosed  eye 
The  little  redbreast  teacheth  charity." 

In  the  beautiful  stanza  which  Gray  has  omitted 
from  his  Elegy  the  idea  is  put  with  his  usual  ex- 
quisite refinement : — 


"  Tliere  scatter'd  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 
By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets  found; 
The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble  there. 
And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground." 

*  Scene  II. — "  We  have  done  our  obsequies." 

In  the  Introductory  Notice  we  have  given  an 
opinion  as  to  the  dramatic  value  of  the  dirge  of 
Collins  as  compared  with  that  of  Shakspere.  Taken 
apart  from  the  scene,  it  will  always  be  read  with 
pleasure. 

A  SONG, 

Sung  hy  Guiderius  and  Arviragus  over  Fidele,  supposed 
to  be  dead. 

To  fair  Fidele's  grassy  tomb. 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 

Each  opening  sweet,  of  earliest  bloom. 
And  rifle  all  the  breathing  spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear 
To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove  ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here. 
And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  wither'd  witch  shall  here  be  seen. 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew  : 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 
And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft  at  evening  hours 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid. 
With  hoary  moss,  and  gather'd  flowers. 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds,  and  beating  rain. 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell ; 

Or  midst  the  chase  on  every  plain. 
The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell. 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore  ; 

For  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed  : 
Belov'd,  till  life  could  charm  no  more; 

And  mourn'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 

■*  Scene  II. — "  I  saw  Jove's  bird,  the  Roman 
eagle." 

The   annexed  beautiful  coin  of  Domitian  is  the 
best  illustration  of  this  passage. 


[Roman  lOagle.] 


235 


[Combat  of  Posthumus  and  laclumo.     Scene  ii] 

ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.— A  Field  hetween  the  British  and 
Roman  Camps. 

Enter  Posthumus,  with  a  bloody  handkerchief. 
Post.  Yea,  bloody  cloth,  I'll  keep  thee  ;  for  I 

wish'd 
Thou  should'st  be  colour'd  thus.     You  married 

ones. 
If  each  of  you  should  take  this  covu'se,  how  many 
Must  murther  wives  much  better  than  themselves. 
For  wrying*  but  a  little  ! — O,  Pisanio ! 
Every  good  servant  does  not  all  commands  ; 
No  bond,  but  to  do  just  ones. — Gods !  if  you 
Should  have  ta'envengeanceonmy  faults,  I  never 
Had  liv'd  to  put  on*"  this  :  so  had  you  saved 
The  noble  Imogen  to  repent ;  and  stnick 
Me,  wretch,  more  worth  your  vengeance  :  But, 

alack, 
Yousnatchsomehenceforlittlefaults ;  that's  love, 
To  have  them  fall  no  more :  you  some  permit 
To  second  ills  with  ills,  each  elder  worse,  *^ 

"  JFrying.  The  use  of  u-ry  as  a  verb  is  uncommon.  We 
have  a  passage  in  Sydney's  '  Arcadia '  which  is  at  once  an 
example  and  an  explanation  : — "  That  from  the  right  line  of 
virtue  are  wryed  to  these  crooked  shifts." 

•"  To  put  on— to  instigate. 

"  '■  Tlie  last  deed  is  certainly  not  the  oldest,"  says  Dr. 
.Tohnson.  That  is,  perhaps,  prosaically  true  ;  but  as  the  man 
who  gcies  on  in  the  commission  of  ill  is  older  when  he  com- 
mits the  last  ill  than  when  he  committed  the  first,  we  do  not 
believe  that  Shalispere,  as  Malone  says,  "  inadvertently  consi- 
dered the  latter  evil   deed  as  the  elder."     The  ccmfusioii,  if 

236 


And  make  them  dread  it,  to  the  doers'  thrift.  * 
But  Imogen  is  your  own  :  Do  your  best  wills, 
And  make  me  bless'd  to  obey ! — I  am  brought 

hither 
Among  the  Italian  gentry,  and  to  fight 
Against  my  lady's  kingdom  :  'Tis  enough 
That,  Britain,  I  have  kill'd  thy  mistress.  Peace! 
I'll  give  no  wound  to  thee.     Tlierefore,  good 

heavens. 
Hear  patiently  my  purpose  ;  I'll  disrobe  me 

there  be  any,  in  the  text  may  be  reconciled  by  Bacon's  notion, 
that  what  we  call  the  old  world  is  really  the  young  world; 
and  so  a  man's  first  sin  is  his  youngest  sin. 

»  The  sentiment  here  is  excessively  beautiful;  but.  from 
the  elliptical  form  of  expression  which  so  strikingly  prevails 
in  this  play,  is  obscure.  Posthumus,  it  appears  to  us,  is  com- 
paring his  own  state  with  what  he  supposes  is  that  of  Imogen. 
She  is  snatched  "  hence,  for  little  faults;"  he  remains  "  to 
second  ills  with  ills."  But  how  is  it  that  such  as  he  "dread 
if?"  The  commentators  believe  that  there  is  a  misprint. 
Theobald  would  read  dreaded;  Johnson  deeded.  Steevens 
interprets  "  to  make  them  dread  it  is  to  make  them  persevere 
in  the  commission  of  rfrend/«/ action  " — dread  it  heing  used  in 
the  same  manner  as  Pope  has  "  to  sinner  it  or  saint  it."  The 
author  of  the  pamphlet  we  have  already  quoted,  '  Explana- 
tions and  Emendations,'  &c.,  thinks  that  the  it  refers  to  ven- 
geance, which  occurs  four  lines  above.  We  cannot  feel  confi- 
dent of  this;  nor  do  we  think  with  Monck  Mason  that  t/trift 
means  something  higher  than  worldly  advantiiges — the  repent- 
ance which  issues  from  the  dread.  We  cannot  help  believing 
that  some  word  ought  to  stand  in  the  place  of  dread  it;  and,  as 
the  small  otTender  is  cut  off,  in  love,  "  to  fall  no  more,"  so 
the  hardened  doer  is  left  to  thrive  in  his  ofTinces,  as  far  as 
this  life  is  concerned.  We  are  inclined  to  conjecture,  although 
we  cannot  presume  to  alter  the  text,  that  dread  it  has  been 
misprinted  for  du  each. 

"  To  second  ills  with  ills,  each  elder  worse. 
And  make  tliem  do  each  to  the  doer's  thrift." 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scenes  II.  in. 


Of  these  Italian  weeds,  and  suit  m3'sclf 
As  docs  a  Briton  peasant :  so  I'll  fight 
Against  the  part  I  come  with  ;  so  I'll  die 
For  thee,  O  Imogen,  even  for  whom  my  life 
Is,  every  breath,  a  death  :  and  thus,  unknown. 
Pitied  nor  hated,  to  the  face  of  peril 
Myself  I'll  dedicate.     Let  me  make  men  know 
More  valour  in  me,  than  my  habits  show. 
Gods,  put  the  sti-ength  o'  the  Leonati  in  me ! 
To  shame  the  guise  o'  the  world,  I  will  begin 
The  fashion  less  without,  and  more  within. 

l_Exit. 
SCENE  11.— The  same. 

Enter  at  one  door  Lucius,  Iachimo,  a7id  the 
Roman  ar/?«//;'  and  the^nt\%\\  army  at  another. 
Leonatus  Posthumus  following,  like  a  poor 
soldier.  They  march  over,  and  go  out.  Then 
enter  again  in  skirmish,  Iachimo  and  Posthu- 
mus :  he  vanquisheth  and  disarmeth  Iachimo, 
a7id  then  leaves  him. " 

lach.  The  heaviness  and  guilt  within  mybosom 
Takes  off  my  manhood :  I  have  belied  a  lady. 
The  princess  of  this  country,  and  the  air  on 't 
Revengingly  enfeebles  me.    Or,  could  this  carl,  •" 
A  very  druge  of  nature's,  have  subdued  me. 
In  my  profession  ?    Knighthoods  and  honours, 

borne 
As  I  wear  mine,  are  titles  but  of  scorn. 
If  that  thy  gentry,  Britain,  go  before 
This  lout,  as  he  exceeds  our  lords,  the  odds 
Is,  that  we  scarce  are  men,  and  you  are  gods. 

[Exit. 
The  battle  continues;  the  Britons  ^^;  Cymbe- 
LiNE  is  taken;  then  enter,  to  his  rescue,  Be- 
LARius,  GuiDERius,  and  Arviragus. 
Bel.  Stand,  stand !  We  have  the  advantage  of 
the  ground ; 
The  lane  is  guarded ;  nothing  routs  us  but 
The  villany  of  our  fears. 

Gui.  Arv.  Stand,  stand,  and  fight ! 

Enter  Posthumus,   and   seconds    the   Britons : 
They  rescue  Cymbeline,  and  exeunt.     Then, 
enter  Lucius,  Iachimo,  and  Imogen. 
Zmc.  Away,  boy,  from  the  troops,  and  save 
thyself: 

»  It  will  be  observed  throughout  this  act  that  the  stage- 
•lirections  are  extremely  full,  and  that  the  action  of  the 
drama  at  the  close  of  the  third  scene  is  entirely  what  was 
called  a  dumb  show.  The  drama  preceding  Shakspere  was 
full  of  such  examples.  But  Shakspere  uniformly  rejected  the 
practice,  except  in  this  instance.  We  do  not  believe  that 
these  directions  for  the  dumb  show  were  interpolated  by  tlie 
players,  as  Ritson  thinks;  and  in  the  Introductory  Notice  we 
have  expressed  our  opinion  that  this,  combined  with  other 
circumstances,  presents  some  evidence  that  Cymbeline  was  a 
rifacchnento  of  an  early  play.  We  would  here  observe  that 
we  have  followed  in  these  stage-directions  the  original  copy, 
which  has  been  departed  from  by  the  modern  editors. 

^  Carl — churl. 

Teagedies. — Vol.  I.        2  H 


For  friends  kill  friends,  and  the  disorder's  such 
As  war  were  hood-wink'd. 

lach.  'Tis  their  fresh  supplies. 

Luc.  It  is  a  day  turn'd  strangely  :  Or  betimes 
Let's  re-enforce,  or  fly.  {^Exeunt. 

SCENE  Ul.—Jnother  Part  of  the  Field. 

Enter  Posthumus  atid  a  British  Lord. 

Lord.  Cam'st  thou  from  where  they  made  the 
stand  ? 

Post.  I  did; 

Though  you,  it  seems,  come  from  the  fliers. 

Lord.  1  did. 

Post.  No  blame  be  to  you,  sir ;  for  all  was  lost, 
But  that  the  heavens  fought :    The  king  himself 
Of  his  wings  destitute,  the  army  broken. 
And  but  the  backs  of  Britons  seen,  all  flying 
Through  a  strait  lane  ;  the  enemy  full-hearted. 
Lolling  the  tongue  with  slaughtering,  having  work 
More  plentiful  than  tools  to  do't,  sti-uck  down 
Some  mortally,  some  slightly  touch 'd,  some  falling 
Merely  through  fear ;  that  the  strait  pass  was 

damm'd 
With  dead  men,  hurt  behind,  and  cowards  living 
To  die  with  lengthen'd  shame. 

Lord.  Where  was  this  lane? 

Post.  Close  by  the  battle,  ditch'd,  and  wall'd 
with  turf; 
Which  gave  advantage  to  an  ancient  soldier, — 
An  honest  one,  I  warrant ;  who  deserv'd 
So  long  a  breeding  as  his  white  beard  came  to. 
In  doing  this  for  his  country, — athwart  the  lane. 
He,  with  two  striplings,  (lads  more  like  to  run 
The  country  base,*  than  to  commit  such  slaughter; 
With  faces  fit  for  masks,  or  rather  fairer 
Than  those  for  preservation  cas'd,  or  shame,) 
Made  good  the  passage  ;  cry'd  to  those  that  fled, 
'  Our  Britain's  harts  die  flying,  not  our  men  : 
To  darkness  fleet,  souls  that  fly  backwards !  Stand ; 
Or  we  are  Romans,  and  will  give  you  that 
Like  beasts,  which  you  shun  beastly ;  and  may 

save. 
But  to  look  back  in  frown :   stand,  stand.' — 

These  three. 
Three  thousand  confident,  in  act  as  many, 
(For  three  performers  are  the  file  when  all 
The  rest  do  nothing,)  with  this  word,  '  stand, 

stand, ' 
Accommodated  by  the  place,  more  charming 
With  their  own  nobleness,  (which  could  have 

turn'd 
A  distaff" to  a  lance,)  gilded  pale  looks. 


base 


Country-base — the   rustic  game  of  prison  bars,  or  prison 

237 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


Part  shame,  partspiritrenew'd;  that  some,  tuvn'd 

coward 
But  by  example  (0,  a  sin  in  war, 
Damn'd  in  the  first  beginners!)  'gan  to  look 
The  way  that  they  did,  and  to  grin  like  lions 
Upon  the  pikes  o'  the  hunters.     Then  began 
A  stop  i'  the  chaser,  a  retire ;  anon, 
A  rout,  confusion  thick :  Forthwith,  they  fly 
Chickens,  the  way  which  they  stoop'd  eagles  ; 

slaves, 
The  strides  they  victors  made  :    And  now  ova- 

cowards 
(Like  fragments  in  hard  voyages)  became 
The  life  o'  the  need,  having  found  the  back-door 

open 
Of  the  unguarded  hearts :  Heavens,  how  they 

wound ! 
Some  slain  before;  somedying;  some  their  friends 
O'er-bornei'  the  former  wave;  ten,  chas'd  by  one, 
Are  now  each  one  the  slaughter-man  of  twenty: 
Those  that  would  die  or  ere  resist  are  grown 
The  mortal  bugs^  o'  the  field. 

Lord.  This  was  strange  chance  : 

A  narrow  lane  !  an  old  man,  and  two  boys ! 

Post.  Nay,  do  not  wonder  at  it :  You  are  made 
Rather  to  wonder  at  the  things  you  hear, 
Than  to  work  any.     Will  you  rhyme  upon  't, 
And  vent  it  for  a  mockery  ?  Here  is  one  : 
'  Two  boys,  an  old  man  twice  a  boy,  a  lane, 
Preserv'd  the  Britons,  was  the  Romans'  bane.' 
Lord.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir. 
Post.  'Lack,  to  what  end! 

Who  dares  not  stand  his  foe,  I'll  be  liis  friend  : 
For  if  he'll  do,  as  he  is  made  to  do, 
I  know  he'll  quickly  fly  my  friendship  too. 
You  have  put  me  into  rhyme. 

Lord.  Farewell ;  you  are  angry. 

lExit. 
Post.  Still  going  1 — ^This  is  a  lord  !    O  noble 

misery ! 
To  be  i'  the  field,  and  ask  what  news  of  me ! 
To-day,  how  many  would  have  given  their  honours 
To  have  sav'd  their  carcasses  ?  took  heel  to  do  't, 
And  yet  died  too  ?  I,  in  mhie  own  woe  charm'd,  ^ 
Could  not  find  death  where  I  did  hear  him  groan ; 
Nor  feel  him  where  he  struck :  Being  an  ugly 

monster, 
'Tis  strange  he  hides  him  in  fresh  cups,  soft  beds, 
Sweet  words  ;  or  hath  more  ministers  than  we 
That  draw  his  knives  i' the  war. — Well,   I  will 

find  him  : 


"  Bugs — terrors. 

I*  Warburton  remarks    that   this   alludes  to  the  common 
superstition  of  charms  having  power  to  keep  men  unhurt  in 
battle.   Macbeth  says,  "  I  bear  a  clmrmed  life" — Posthumus, 
"I,  in  mine  own  woe  charm'd." 
238 


For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Briton, 
No  more  a  Briton, "  I  have  resum'd  again 
The  part  I  came  in  :  Fight  I  will  no  more, 
But  yield  me  to  the  veriest  hind  that  shall 
Once  touch  my  shoulder.     Great  the  slaughter  is 
Here  made  by  the  Roman ;  great  the  answer  be 
Britons  must  take  ;  For  me,  my  ransom's  death  ; 
On  either  side  I  come  to  spend  my  breath ; 
Which  neither  here  Fll  keep,  nor  bear  again, 
But  end  it  by  some  means  for  Imogen. 

Enter  Two  Captains,  and  Soldiers. 

1  Cap.  Great  Jupiter  be  prais'd !  Lucius  is 

taken : 
'Tis  thought  the  old  man  and  his  sons  were  angels. 

2  Cap.  There  was  a  fourth  man,  in  a  silly  habit, 
That  gave  the  affront'*  with  them. 

1  Cap.  So  'tis  reported  : 
But  none  of  them  can  be  found. — Stand !  who 

is  there  ? 
Post.  A  Roman ; 
Who  had  not  now  been  droophig  here,  if  seconds 
Had  answer'd  him. 

2  Cap.  Lay  hands  on  him  ;  a  dog  ! 
A  leg  of  Rome  shall  not  return  to  tell 

What  crows  have  peck'd  them  here  :  He  brags 

his  service 
As  if  he  were  of  note  :  bring  him  to  the  king. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Belarius,  Guiderius,  Ar- 
viRAGUs,  PisANio,  and  Roman  Captives.  The 
Captains  present  Posthumus  to  Cymbeline, 
who  delivers  him  over  to  a  Gaoler. 

SCENE  lY.— A  Prison. 

Efiter  Posthumus,  and  Two  Gaolers. 

1  Gaol.  You   shall   not  now  be   stolen,  you 

have  locks  upon  you  ; 
So,  graze,  as  you  find  pasture. 

2  Gaol.  Ay,  or  a  stomach. 

[^Exeunt  Gaolers. 
Post.  Most  welcome,  bondage !   for  thou  art 
a  way 
I  think,  to  liberty :  Yet  am  I  better 
Than  one  that's  sick  o'  the  gout :  since  he  had 
rather 


»  We  follow  the  original.     Since  the  time  of  Hanmer  the 
passage  has  been  changed  to — 

"  For  being  now  a  favourer  to  the  Unman, 
No  more  a  Britun." 

^  Affront — encounter. 
We  think  the  change  was  uncalled  for ;  because  Posthumus, 
in  his  heroic  conduct,  has  been  really  "  a  favourer  to  the 
Briton,"  but,  heing  about  to  resume  the  part  he  came  in,  he 
\s,no  more  a  Briton,  and  he  immediately  afterwards  surrenders 
himself  as  a  Roman. 


Act  V.l 


CYMBELINE. 


[SCKNE    IV. 


Groan  so  in  perpetuity,  than  be  cur'cl 

By  the  sure  pli)'sician,  death,  who  is  the  key 

To  unbar  these  locks.     My  conscience  !  thou 

art  fetter 'd 
More  than   my  slianks  and  wrists :   You  good 

gods,  give  me 
The  penitent  instrument,  to  pick  that  bolt, 
Then,  free  for  ever !  Is  't  enough  I  am  sorry? 
So  children  temporal  fathers  do  appease ; 
Gods  are  more  full  of  mercy.     Must  I  repent  ? 
I  cannot  do  it  better  than  in  gyves, 
Desir'd,  more  than  constrain'd  :  to  satisfy, 
If  of  my  freedom  'tis  the  main  part,  take 
No  stricter  render  of  me,  than  my  all. 
I  know  you  are  more  clement  than  vile  men. 
Who  of  their  broken  debtors  take  a  third, 
A  sixth,  a  tenth,  letting  them  thrive  again 
On  their  abatement :  that's  not  my  desire  : 
For  Imogen's  dear  life  take  mine ;  and  though 
'Tis  not  so  dear,  yet  'tis  a  life ;  you  coin'd  it: 
'Tween  man  and  man,  they  weigh  not   every 

stamp ; 
Though  light,  take  pieces  for  the  figure's  sake  : 
You  rather  mine,  being  yours :  And  so,  great 

powers, 
If  you  will  take  this  audit,  take  this  life. 
And  cancel  these  cold  bonds.     O  Imogen  ! 
I'll  speak  to  thee  in  silence.  \_He  sleeps. 

Solemn  Music.  En*er,  as  in  an  apparition,  Sioilius  Leon- 
ATus,  father  to  Posthumus,  an  old  man,  attired  lilte  a  war- 
rior; leading  in  his  hand  an  ancient  matron,  Ms  ivife,  and 
mofherto  FoSTUVjuvs,  with  music  before  them.  Then,  after 
other  music,  follow  the  Tivo  young  Leonati,  brothers  to 
Posthumus,  with  wounds,  as  they  died  in  the  wars.  They 
circle  Posthumus  round,  as  he  lies  sleeping. 

Sici.  No  more,  thou  thunder-master,  show 

Thy  spite  on  mortal  flies ; 
With  Mars  fall  out,  with  Juno  chide. 

That  thy  adulteries 

Rates  and  revenges. 
Hath  my  poor  boy  done  aught  but  well. 

Whose  face  I  never  saw  ? 
I  died,  whilst  in  the  womb  he  stay'd 

Attending  Nature's  law. 
Whose  father  then  (as  men  report. 

Thou  orphans'  father  art,) 
Thou  should'st  have  been,  and  shielded  liim 

From  this  earth- vexing  smart. 

Moth.  Lucina  lent  not  me  her  aid. 
But  took  me  in  my  throes ; 
That  from  me  was  Posthumus  ripp'd, 
.   Came  crying  'mongst  his  foes, 
A  thing  of  pity  ! 

Sici.  Great  nature,  like  his  ancestry. 
Moulded  the  stuff  so  fair, 
That  he  deserv'd  the  praise  o'  the  world. 
As  great  Sicilius'  heir. 

1  Bro.  When  once  he  was  mature  for  man. 
In  Britain  where  was  he 
Tliat  could  stand  up  his  parallel  ; 
Or  fruitful  object  be 


III  eye  of  Imogen,  that  best 

Could  deem  his  dignity  ? 

Moth.  With  marriage  wherefore  was  he  niock'd, 
To  be  cxil'd,  and  thrown 
From  Leonati'  seat,  and  cast 

From  her  liis  dearest  one, 
Sweet  Imogen  ? 

Sici.  Wliy  did  you  sulVer  lachimo, 

Slight  thing  of  Italy, 
To  taint  his  nobler  heart  and  brain 

Witli  needless  jealousy  ; 
And  to  become  the  geek  and  scum 

O'  the  other's  -sillany  ? 
2  Bro.  For  this,  from  stDler  seats  we  came, 

Our  parents  and  us  twain, 
That,  striking  in  our  country's  cause. 

Fell  bravely,  and  were  slain  ; 
Our  fealty,  and  Tenantius'  right, 

\\  ith  honour  to  maintain. 

1  Bro.  Like  hardiment  Posthumus  halli 

To  Cynibeline  perform'd : 
Then  Jupiter,  thou  king  of  gods, 

Wliy  hast  thou  thus  adjourn' d 
The  graces  for  his  merits  due ; 

Being  all  to  dolours  turn'd? 

Sici.  Thy  crystal  window  ope  ;  look  out ; 
No  longer  exercise. 
Upon  a  valiant  race,  thy  harsh 
And  potent  injuries. 

Moth.  Since,  Jupiter,  our  son  is  good, 
Take  off  his  miseries. 

Sici.  Peep  through  thy  marble  mansion  ;  help  ! 
Or  we  poor  ghosts  will  cry 
To  the  shining  synod  of  the  rest, 
Agiinst  thy  deily. 

2  Bro.  Help,  Jupiter;  or  we  appeal. 

And  from  thy  justice  fly. 

Jupiter  descends  in  thunder  and  lightning,  sitting  upon  an 
eagle:  he  throws  a  thunder-bolt.  The  Ghosts  fait  on  their 
knees. 

Jup.  No  more,  you  petty  spirits  of  region  low. 

Offend  our  hearing:  hush!— How  dare  you  ghosts 
Accuse  the  thunderer,  whose  bolt  yo\i  know. 

Sky-planted,  batters  all  rebelling  coasts? 
Poor  shadows  of  Elysium,  hence;  and  rest 

Upon  your  never-withering  banks  of  flowers: 
Be  not  with  mortal  accidents  opprest ; 

No  care  of  yours  it  is;  you  know,  'tis  ours. 
Whom  best  I  love  I  cross;  to  make  my  gift. 

The  more  delay 'd,  delighted.     Be  content; 
Your  low-laid  son  our  godliead  will  uplift : 

His  comforts  thrive,  his  trials  well  are  spent. 
Our  Jovial  star  reign'd  at  his  birth,  and  in 

Our  temple  was  he  married. — Rise,  and  fade! — 
He  shall  be  lord  of  lady  Imogen, 

And  happier  much  by  his  affliction  made. 
This  tablet  lay  upon  liis  breast ;  wherein 

Our  pleasure  his  full  fortune  doth  confine ; 
And  so,  away :  no  farther  with  your  din 

Express  impatience,  lest  you  stir  up  mine.— 

Mount,  eagle,  to  my  palace  crystalline.  \_Ascendi 

Sici.  He  came  in  thunder ;  his  celestial  breath 
Was  sulphurous  to  smell  :  the  holy  eagle 
Stoop'd,  as  to  foot  us  :  his  ascension  is 
More  sweet  than  our  bless' d  fields:  his  royal  bird 
Prunes  the  immortal  wing,  and  cloys  liis  beak. 
As  when  his  god  is  pleas'd. 

239 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


All.  TlianUs,  Jupiter ! 

Sici.  Tho  marble  pavemimt  closes,  he  is  enter'd 
His  radiant  roof; — Away  I  and,  to  be  blest. 
Let  us  with  care  perform  his  great  behest.     [Ohosts  vanish. 

Post.    [Waking.^    Sleep,   thou   hast  heen  a 
grandsire,  and  begot 
A  father  to  me :  and  tliou  hast  created 
A  mother,  and  two  brothers ;    But — O  scorn  ! — 
Gone !  they  went  hence  so  soon  as  they  were  born. 
And  so  I  am  awake.   Poor  wretches  that  depend 
On  greatness'  favour  dream  as  I  have  done ; 
Wake,  and  find  nothing.     But,  alas,  I  swerve  : 
Many  dream  not  to  find,  neither  deserve, 
And  yet  are  steep'd  in  favours ;  so  am  I, 
That  have  this  golden  chance,  and  know  not  why. 
What  fairies  haunt  this  ground  ?     A  book  ?    O 

rare  one ! 
Be  not,  as  is  our  fangled  "■  world,  a  garment 
Nobler  than  that  it  covers  :  let  thy  effects 
So  follow,  to  be  most  unlike  our  courtiers, 
As  good  as  promise. 

[Reads.']  When  as  a  lion's  whelp  shall,  to  himself  un- 
nown,  without  seeking  find,  and  be  embraced  by  a  piece 
of  tender  air  ;  and  wlien  from  a  stately  cedar  shall  be  lopped 
branches,  which,  being  dead  many  years,  shall  after  revive, 
be  jointed  to  tlie  old  stock,  and  freshly  grow  ;  then  shall 
Postliumus  end  his  miseries,  Britain  bo  fortunate,  and 
flourish  in  peace  and  plenty. 

'Tis  still  a  dream ;  or  else  such  stuff  as  madmen 
Tongue,  and  brain  not :  either  both,  or  nothing : 
Or  senseless  speaking,  or  a  speaking  such 
As  sense  cannot  untie.     Be  what  it  is, 
The  action  of  my  life  is  like  it,  which 
I'll  keep,  if  but  for  sympathy. 

Enter  Gaoler. 

Gaol.  Come,  sir,  are  you  ready  for  death  1 

Post.  Over-roasted  rather :  ready  long  ago. 

Gaol.  Hanging  is  the  word,  sir;  if  you  be 
ready  for  that  you  are  well  cooked. 

Post.  So,  if  I  prove  a  good  repast  to  the  spec- 
tators the  dish  pays  the  shot. 

Gaol.  ^A  heavy  reckoning  for  you,  sir  :  But 
the  comfort  is,  you  shall  be  called  to  no  more 
payments,  fear  no  more  tavern  bills  ;  which 
are  often  the  sadness  of  parting,  as  the  pro- 
curing of  mirth ,  you  come  in  faint  for  want 
of  meat,  depart  reeling  with  too  much  drink ; 
sorry  that  you  have  paid  too  much,  and  sorry 
that  you  are  paid  too  much ;  purse  and  brain 
both  empty;  the  brain  the  heavier  for  being  too 
light,  the  purse  too  light,  being  drawn  of  hea- 
viness :  O !  of  this  contradiction  you  shall  now 
be  quit. — O,  the  charity  of  a  penny  cord!  it 

»  Fnngled.  This  word  is  very  rarely  used  witliout  the  epi- 
thet «eai;  yet  (angle  means  an  innovation.  V^^e  have  it  in 
Anthony  Wood — "  A  hatred  to  /angles  and  the  Frencli 
fooleries  of  his  time." 

240 


sums  up  thousands  in  a  trice :  you  have  no  true 
debitor  and  creditor  but  it;  of  what's  past,  is,  and 
to  come,  the  discharge : — Your  neck,  sir,  is  pen, 
book,  and  counters;  so  the  acquittance  follows. 

Post.  I  am  merrier  to  die  than  thou  art  to  live. 

Gaol.  Indeed,  sir,  he  that  sleeps  feels  not  the 
tooth-ache  :  But  a  man  that  were  to  sleep  your 
sleep,  and  a  hangman  to  help  him  to  bed,  I  think 
he  would  change  places  with  his  officer ;  for,  look 
you,  sir,  you  know  not  which  way  you  shall  go. 

Post.  Yes,  indeed,  do  I,  fellow. 

Gaol.  Your  death  has  eyes  in  's  head  then ; 
I  have  not  seen  him  so  pictured:  you  must 
either  be  directed  by  some  that  take  upon  them 
to  know;  or  take  upon  youi'self  that  which  I  am 
sure  you  do  not  know;  for,  jump  the  after- 
inquiry  on  your  own  peril,  and  how  you  shall 
speed  in  your  journey's  end,  I  think  you'll  never 
return  to  tell  one. 

Post.  1  tell  thee,  fellow,  there  are  none  want 
eyes  to  direct  them  the  way  I  am  going,  but 
such  as  wink,  and  will  not  use  them. 

Gaol.  What  an  infinite  mock  is  this,  that  a 
man  should  have  the  best  use  of  eyes  to  see  the 
way  of  blindness!  I  am  sure  hanging's  the  way 
of  winking. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess,  Knock  off  his  manacles;  bring  your 
prisoner  to  the  king. 

Post.  Thou  bring' st  good  news ; — I  am  called 
to  be  made  free. 

Gaol,  ril  be  hanged  then. 

Post.  Thou  shalt  be  then  freer  than  a  gaoler ; 
no  bolts  for  the  dead. 

\_Exeu7it  PosTHUMUs  and  Messenger. 

Gaol.  Unless  a  man  would  marry  a  gallows, 
and  beget  young  gibbets,  I  never  saw  one  so 
prone.""  Yet,  on  my  conscience,  there  are  ve- 
rier knaves  desire  to  live,  for  all  he  be  a  Roman : 
and  there  be  some  of  them  too  that  die  against 
their  wills :  so  should  I,  if  I  were  one.  I  would 
we  were  all  of  one  mind,  and  one  mind  good ; 
O,  there  were  desolation  of  gaolers  and  gal- 
lowses! I  speak  against  my  present  profit;  but 
my  wish  hath  a  preferment  in  't.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— Cymbeline's  Tent. 

Enter  Cymbeline,  Belarius,  Guiderius,  Ar- 
viRAGus,  PisANio,  Lords,  Officers,  and  At- 
tendants. 

Cym.  Stand  by  my  side,  you  whom  the  gods 
have  made 

"  Prone — forward. 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Preservers  of  my  throne.     Woe  is  my  heart, 
That  the  poor  soldier  that  so  richly  fought, 
Whose  rags  sham'd  gilded  arms,  whoso  naked 

hreast 
Steppd  hefore  targes  of  proof,  cannot  be  found: 
He  shall  be  happy  that  can  find  him,  if 
Our  grace  can  make  him  so. 

Bel.  I  never  saw 

Such  noble  fury  in  so  poor  a  thing ; 
Such  precious  deeds  in  one  that  promis'd  nought 
But  beggary  and  poor  looks. 

Cij7n.  No  tidings  of  him  ? 

Pis.  He  hath  been  search'd  among  the  dead 
and  living, 
But  no  trace  of  him. 

Cym.  To  my  grief,  I  am 

The  heir  of  his  reward ;  which  I  will  add 
To  you  the  liver,  heart,  and  brain  of  Britain, 

l_To  Belarius,  Guiderius,  and 
Arviragus. 
By  whom  I  grant  she  lives : — 'Tis  now  the  time 
To  ask  of  whence  you  are : — report  it. 

Bel.  Sir, 

In  Cambria  are  we  bom,  and  gentlemen  : 
Fiu-ther  to  boast  were  neither  true  nor  modest, 
Unless  I  add  we  are  honest. 

Cym.  Bow  your  knees  j 

Arise,  my  knighs  o'  the  battle  ;  I  create  you 
Companions  to  our  person,  and  will  fit  you 
With  dignities  becoming  your  estates. 

Enter  Cornelius  ajid  Ladies. 

There's  business  in  these  faces  : — Why  so  sadly 
Greet  you  our  victory  ?  you  look  like  Romans, 
And  not  o'  the  court  of  Britain. 

Cor.  Hail,  great  king ! 

To  sour  your  happiness,  I  must  report 
The  queen  is  dead. 

Cym.  Whom  worse  than  a  physician 

Would  this  report  become  ?  But  I  consider, 
By  medicine  life  may  be  prolong'd,  yet  death 
Will  seize  the  doctor  too. — How  ended  she  ? 

Cor.  With  horror,  madly  dying,  like  her  life , 
Which,  being  cruel  to  the  world,  concluded 
Most  cruel  to  herself.     What  she  confess'd 
I  will  report,  so  please  you  :  These  her  women 
Can  trip  me,  if  I  err ;  who,  with  wet  cheeks. 
Were  present  when  she  finish'd. 

Cym.  Prithee,  say. 

Cor.  First,  she  confess'd  she  never  lov'd  you ; 
only 
AflTected  greatness  got  by  you,  not  you : 
Married  your  royalty,  was  wife  to  yom-  place  ; 
Abhorr'd  your  person. 

Cym.  She  alone  knew  this  : 


And,  but  she  spoke  it  dying,  I  would  not 
Believe  her  lips  in  opening  it.     Proceed. 

Cor.  Your  daughter,  whom  she  bore  in  hand 
to  love 
With  such  integrity,  she  did  confess 
Was  as  a  scorpion  to  her  sight ;  whose  life, 
But  that  her  flight  prevented  it,  she  had 
Ta'en  off  by  poison, 

Cy7n.  O  most  delicate  fiend  ! 

Who  is  't  can  read  a  woman  ? — Is  there  more  ? 

Cor.  More,  sir,  and  worse.     She  did  confess 
she  had 
For  you  a  mortal  mineral ;  which,  being  took. 
Should  by  the  minute  feed  on  life,  and,  ling'ring, 
By  inches  waste  you :    In  which  time  shepui-pos'd, 
By  watching,  weeping,  tendance,  kissing,  to 
O'ercome  you  with  her  show :  yes,  and  in  time. 
When  she  had  fitted  you  with  her  craft,  to  work 
Her  son  into  the  adoption  of  the  cro^vn : 
But,  failing  of  her  end  by  his  strange  absence. 
Grew  shameless-desperate ;  open'd,  in  despite 
Of  heaven  and  men,  her  purposes;  repented 
The  evils  she  hatch'd  were  not  effected ;  bo, 
Despairing,  died. 

Cym.  Heard  you  all  this,  her  women? 

Lady.  We  did,  so  please  your  highness. 

Cym.  Mine  eyes 

Were  not  in  fault,  for  she  was  beautiful  ; 
Mine  ears,  that  heard  her  flattery ;  nor  my  heart, 
That  thought  her  like  her  seeming :  it  had  been 

vicious 
To  have  mistrusted  her:  yet,  O  my  daughter! 
That  it  was  folly  in  me,  thou  may'st  say. 
And  prove  it  in  thy  feeling.    Heaven  mend  aU  I 

Enterlivcivs,  Iachimo,  the  Soothsayer,  and  other 
Komaxiprisotiers, guarded ;  Posthumus  behind, 
and  Imogen. 

Thou  com'st  not,  Caius,  now  for  tribute ;  that 
The  Britons  have  raz'd  out,  though  with  the  loss 
Of  many  a  bold  one ;  whose  kinsmen  have  made 

suit 
That  their  good  souls  may  be  appeas'd  with 

slaughter 
Of    you   their    captives,    which    ourself  have 

granted : 
So,  think  of  your  estate. 

Luc.  Consider,  sir,  the  chance  of  war:  the  day 
Was  yoiirs  by  accident;  had  it  gone  with  us. 
We  should  not,  when  the  blood  was  cool,  have 

threaten'd 
Our  prisoners  with  the  sword.     But  since  the  gods 
Will  have  it  thus,  that  nothing  but  our  lives 
May  be  call'd  ransom,  let  it  come :  sufficeth 
A  Roman  with  a  Roman's  heart  can  suffer  : 

241 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


Augustus  lives  to  think  on't:  and  so  much 

For  my  peculiar  care.     This  one  thing  only 

I  will  entreat :  my  boy,  a  Briton  born, 

Let  him  be  ransom'd :  never  master  had 

A  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent, 

So  tender  over  his  occasions,  true. 

So  feat,  so  nurse-like  :  let  his  virtue  join 

With  my  request,  which,  I  '11  make  bold,  your 

highness 
Cannot  deny ;  he  hath  done  no  Briton  harm. 
Though  he  have  serv'd  a  Roman  :  save  him,  sir. 
And  spare  no  blood  beside. 

Cym.  I  have  surely  seen  him ; 

His  favour  is  familiar  to  me. 
Boy,  thou  hast  look'd  thyself  into  my  grace. 
And   art   mine    own. — I   know  not  why,    nor 

wherefore. 
To  say  live  boy :  ne'er  thank  thy  master ;  live : 
And  ask  of  Cymbeline  what  boon  thou  wilt, 
Fitting  my  bounty  and  thy  state,  I  '11  give  it ; 
Yea,  though  thou  do  demand  a  prisoner, 
The  noblest  ta'en. 

Imo.  I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

Luc.  I  do  not  bid  thee  beg  my  life,  good  lad; 
And  yet,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Imo.  No,  no:  alack, 

There 's  other  work  in  hand ;  I  see  a  thing 
Bitter  to  me  as  death  :  your  life,  good  master, 
Must  shuffle  for  itself. 

Luc.  The  boy  disdains  me. 

He  leaves  me,  scorns  me  :  Briefly  die  their  joys, 
That  place  them  on  the  truth  of  girls  and  boys. 
Why  stands  he  so  perplex'd  ? 

Cym.  What  would'st  thou,  boy? 

I  love  thee  more  and  more  ;  think  more  and  more 
What  "s  best  to  ask.     Know'st  liim  thou  look'st 

on?  speak, 
Wilt  have  him  live?    Is  he  thy  kin?  thy  friend? 

Imo.  He  is  a  Roman  ;  no  more  kin  to  me 
Than  I  to  your  highness ;  who,  being  born  your 

vassal, 
Am  something  nearer. 

Cym.  Wherefore  ey  'st  him  so  ? 

Imo.  I  '11  tell  you,  sir,  in  private,  if  you  please 
To  give  me  hearing. 

Cym.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart, 

And  lend  my  best  attention.  What's  thy  name? 
Imo.  Fidele,  sir. 

Cym.         Thou  art  my  good  youth,  my  page ; 
I'll  be  thy  master:  Walk  with  me;  speak  freely. 
[Cymbeline  and  Imogen  converse  apart. 
Bel.  Is  not  this  boy  reviv'd  from  death  ? 
Aj-v.  One  sand  another 

Not  more  resembles  that  sweet  rosy  lad 
Who  died,  and  was  Fidele  :  — What  think  you  ? 
242 


Gui.  The  same  dead  thing  alive. 
Bel.  Peace,  peace !  see  further ;  he  eyes  us 
not;  forbear; 
Creatures  may  be  alike  :  were  't  he,  I  am  sure 
He  would  have  spoke  to  us. 

Gui.  But  we  saw  him  dead. 

Bel.  Be  silent ;  let's  see  fiurther. 
Pis.  It  is  my  mistress  . 

\_Aside. 
Since  she  is  living,  let  the  time  run  on 
To  good,  or  bad. 

[Cymbeline  awf?  Imogen  come  forward. 

Cym.  Come,  stand  thou  by  our  side ; 

Make  thy  demand  aloud. — Sir,  [to  Iach.]  step 

you  forth  ; 
Give  answer  to  this  boy,  and  do  it  freely  ; 
Or,  by  our  greatness,  and  the  grace  of  it. 
Which  is  our  honour,  bitter  torture  shall 
Winnow  the  truth  from  falsehood. — On,  speak  to 
him. 
Imo.  My  boon  is,  that  this  gentleman  may 
render 
Of  whom  he  had  this  ring. 

Post.  What's  that  to  him  ? 

l^Aside. 
Cym.  That  diamond  upon  your  finger,  say 
How  came  it  yours  ? 

Iach.  Thou 'It  torture  me  to  leave  unspoken 
that 
Which,  to  be  spoke,  would  tortm'e  thee. 

Cym.  How  !  me  ? 

Iach.  I  am  glad  to  be  constrain'd  to  utter  that 
Which  torments  me  to  conceal.     By  villany 
I  got  this  ring ;   'twas  Leonatus'  jewel : 
Whom  thou  didst  banish ;  and  (which  more,  may 

grieve  thee 
As  it  doth  me,)  a  nobler  sir  ne'er  liv'd 
'Twixt  sky  and  ground.     Wilt  thou  hear  more, 
my  lord  ? 
Cym.  All  that  belongs  to  this. 
Iach.  That  paragon,  thy  daughter, — 

For  whom  my  heart  drops  blood,  and  my  false 

spirits 
Quail  to  remember, — Give  me  leave ;  I  faint. 
Cym.  My  daughter!  what  of  her?  Renew  thy 
strength : 
I  had  rather  thou  shoidd'st  live  while  nature  will, 
Than  die  ere  I  hear  more :  strive,  man,  and  speak. 
Iach.  Upon  a  time,  (unhappy  was  the  clock 
That  struck  the  hour!)  it  was  in  Rome,  (accurs'd 
The  mansion  where  !)  'twas  at  a  feast,  (O  'would 
Our  viands  had  been  poison'd  !  or,  at  least, 
Those  which  I  heav'd  to  head !)  the  good  Pos- 

thumus, 
( What  should  I  say  ?  he  was  too  good,  to  be 


Act  V.l 


CYMBELINE. 


[ScENt    V. 


Where  ill  men  were  ;  and  was  the  best  of  all 

Among'st  the  rar'st  of  good  ones,)  sittmg  sadly, 

Hearing  us  praise  our  loves  of  Italy 

For  beauty  that  made  barren  the  swell'd  boast 

Of  him  that  best  could  speak  ;  for  feature,  laming 

The  shrine  of  Venus,  or  straight-pight  Minerva, 

Postures  beyond  brief  nature  ;  *  for  condition, 

A  shop  of  all  the  qualities  that  man 

Loves  woman  for ;  besides,  that  hook  of  wiving, 

Fairness,  which  strikes  the  eye  : — 

Cym.  I  stand  on  fire  : 

Come  to  the  matter. 

lach.  All  too  soon  I  shall, 

Unless  thou  would'st  grieve  quickly. — This  Post- 
humus 
(Most  like  a  noble  lord  in  love,  and  one 
That  had  a  royal  lover)  took  this  hint ; 
And,  not  dispraising  whom  we  prais'd,  (therein 
He  was  as  calm  as  virtue,)  he  began 
His  mistress'  picture  ;  which  by  his  tongue  being 

made. 
And  then  a  mind  put  in't,  either  our  brags 
Were  crack'd  of  kitchen  ti-ulls,  or  his  description 
Prov'd  us  unspeaking  sots. 

Cym.  Nay,  nay,  to  the  purpose. 

lack.    Your   daughter's    chastity  —  there   it 
begins. 
He  spake  of  her,  as  Dian  had  hot  dreams, 
And  she  alone  were  cold:  Whereat,  I,  wretch! 
Made  scruple  of  his  praise ;  and  wager'd  with 

him 
pieces  of  gold,  'gainst  this  which  then  he  wore 
Upon  his  honour' d  finger,  to  attain 
In  suit  the  place  of  his  bed,  and  win  this  ring 
By  hers  and  mine  adultery  :  he,  true  knight, 
No  lesser  of  her  honour  confident 
Than  I  did  truly  find  her,  stakes  this  ring ; 
And  would  so,  had  it  been  a  carbuncle 
Of  Phcebus'  wheel ;  and  might  so  safely,  had  it 
Been  all  the  worth  of  his  car.     Away  to  Britain 
Post  I  in  this  design  :  Well  may  you,  sir, 
Remember  me  at  court,  where  I  was  taught 
Of  your  chaste  daughter  the  wide  diiference 
'Twixt  amorous    and   villanous.       Being   thus 

quench'd 
Of  hope,  not  longing,  mine  Italian  brain 
'Gan  in  your  duller  Britain  operate 
Most  vilely ;  for  my  vantage,  excellent ; 
And,  to  be  brief,  my  practice  so  prevail'd 
That  I  retm-n"d  with  simular  proof  enough 
To  make  the  noble  Leonatus  mad. 
By  wounding  his  belief  in  her  renown 
With  tokens  thus,  and  thus;  avennng  notes 
Of  chamber-hanging,  pictm-es,  this  her  bracelet, 
(O,  cunning,  how  I  got  it !)  nay,  some  marks 


Of  secret  on  her  person,  that  he  could  not 
But  think  her  bond  of  chastity  quite  crack'd, 
I  having  ta'en  the  forfeit.     Whereupon, — 
Methinks,  I  see  him  now, — 

Post.  Ay,  so  thou  dost, 

\_Comwg  forward. 
Italian  fiend  ! — Ah  me,  most  credulous  fool, 
Egregious  mm-derer,  thief,  any  thing 
That's  due  to  all  the  villains  past,  in  being, 
To  come  ! — O,  give  me  cord,  or  knife,  or  poison, 
Some  upright  justicer  !*  Thou,  king,  send  out 
For  torturers  ingenious:  it  is  I 
That  all  the  abhorred  things  o'  the  earth  amend. 
By  being  worse  than  they.     I  am  Posthimius, 
That  kiird  thy  daughter  : — villain-like,  I  lie  ; 
That  caus'd  a  lesser  villain  than  myself, 
A  sacrilegious  thief,  to  do't : — the  temple 
Of  virtue  was  she ;  yea,  and  she  herself. 
Spit,  and  throw  stones,  cast  mire  upon  me,  set 
The  dogs  o'  the  street  to  bay  me :  every  villain 
Be  call'd  Posthumus  Leonatus;  and 
Be  vUlany  less  than  'twas  ! — O  Imogen  ! 
My  queen,  my  life,  my  wife !  O  Imogen, 
Imogen,  Imogen ! 

Imo.  Peace,  my  lord ;  hear,  hear! — 

Post.    Shall  's  have  a  play  of  this  ?      Thou 
scornful  page. 
There  lie  thy  part.  {^Striking  her:  she  falls. 

Pis.  O,  gentlemen,  help 

Mine,  and  your  mistress  : — O,  my  lord  Posthu- 
mus ! 
You  ne'er  kill'd  Imogen  till  now : — Help,  help ! — 
Mine  honovu-'d  lady ! 

Cyyn.  Does  the  world  go  round? 

Post.  How  come  these  staggers  on  me? 

Pis.  Wake,  my  mistress ! 

Cy7n.  If  this  be  so,  the  gods  do  mean  to  strike 
me 
To  death  with  mortal  joj\ 

Pis.  How  fares  my  mistress? 

Imo.  O,  get  thee  from  my  sight; 
Thou  gav'st  me  poison :  dangerous  fellow,  hence ! 
Breathe  not  where  princes  are  ! 

Cym.  The  tune  of  Imogen ! 

Pis.  Lady, 
The  gods  throw  stones  of  siilphur  on  me,  if 
That  box  I  gave  you  was  not  thought  by  me 
A  precious  thing;  I  had  it  from  the  queen. 

Cym.  New  matter  still? 

Imo.  It  poison'd  me. 

Cor.  O  gods  I— 

I  left  out  one  thing  which  the  queen  confess'd. 
Which  must  approve  thee  honest :  If  Pisanio 

»  Justicer.    This  fine  old  word  is  us«d  several  timus  in  Le;u . 
It  is  found  in  our  ancient  law-books. 

24;i 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Have,  said  she,  given  his  mistress  that  confection 
Wliich  I  gave  him  for  cordial,  she  is  serv'd 
As  I  would  serve  a  rat. 

Cym.  What's  this,  Cornelius? 

Cor.  The  queen,  sir,  very  oft  importun'd  me 
To  temper  poisons  for  her ;  still  pretending 
The  satisfaction  of  her  knowledge  only 
In  killing  creatures  vile,  as  cats  and  dogs 
Of  no  esteem :  I,  dreading  that  her  purpose 
Was  of  more  danger,  did  compound  for  her 
A  certain  stuff,  which,  being  ta'en,  would  cease 
The  present  power  of  life ;  but,  in  short  time. 
All  offices  of  nature  should  again 
Do  their  due  functions. — Have  you  ta'en  of  it? 

Imo.  Most  like  1  did,  for  I  was  dead. 

Bel.  My  boys, 

There  was  our  error. 

Gui.  This  is  sure,  Fidele. 

Imo.  Why  did  you  throw  your  wedded  lady 
from  you? 
Think  that  you  are  upon  a  rock,  and  now 
Throw  me  again.  {^Embracing  Mm. 

Post.  Hang  there  like  fruit,  my  soul. 

Till  the  tree  die ! 

Cym.  How  now,  my  flesh,  my  child  ? 

What,  mak'st  thou  me  a  dullard  in  this  act? 
Wilt  thou  not  speak  to  me? 

Imo.  Your  blessing,  sir. 

[^K?ieelmg. 

Bel.  Though  you  did  love  this  youth,  I  blame 
ye  not; 
You  had  a  motive  for  it. 

[2o  GuiDERius  and  Arviragus. 

Cym.  My  tears,  that  fall, 

Prove  holy  water  on  thee !     Imogen, 
Thy  mother's  dead. 

Imo.  I  am  sorry  for  't,  my  lord. 

Cym.  O,  she  was  naught ;  and  long  of  her  it 
was 
That  we  meet  here  so  strangely :  But  her  son 
Is  gone,  we  know  not  how,  nor  where. 

Pis.  My  lord. 

Now  fear  is  from  me,  I'll  speak  troth.     Lord 

Cloten, 
Upon  my  lady's  missing,  came  to  me 
With  his  sword  drawn ;    foam'd  at  the  mouth, 

and  swore 
If  I  discover'd  not  which  way  she  was  gone, 
It  was  my  instant  death :  By  accident, 
I  had  a  feigned  letter  of  my  master's 
Then  in  my  pocket ;  which  directed  him 
To  seek  her  on  the  mountains  near  to  Milford; 
Where,  in  a  frenzy,  in  my  master's  garments, 
Which  he  inforc'd  from  me,  away  he  posts 
With  unchaste  purpose,  and  with  oath  to  violate 
244 


My  lady's  honour:  what  became  of  him, 
I  further  know  not. 

Gui.  Let  me  end  the  story : 

I  slew  him  there. 

Cym.  Marry,  the  gods  forefend! 

I  would  not  thy  good  deeds  should  from  my  lips 
Pluck  a  hard  sentence :  prithee,  valiant  youth, 
Deny  't  again. 

Gui.  I  have  spoke  it,  and  I  did  it. 

Cym.  He  was  a  prince. 

Gui.  A  most  incivil  one :  The  wrongs  he  did 
me 
Were  nothing  prince-like;  for  he  did  provoke  me 
With  language  that  would  make  me  spurn  the  sea, 
If  it  could  so  roar  to  me :  I  cut  off 's  head ; 
And  am  right  glad  he  is  not  standing  here 
To  tell  this  tale  of  mine. 

Cym.  I  am  sorry  for  thee. 

By  thine  own  tongue  thou  art  condemn'd,  and 

must 
Endure  our  law :  Thou  art  dead. 

/mo.  That  headless  man 

I  thought  had  been  my  lord. 

Cym.  Bind  the  offender. 

And  take  him  from  oiur  presence. 

Bel.  Stay,  sir  king : 

This  man  is  better  than  the  man  he  slew, 
As  well  descended  as  thyself;  and  hath 
More  of  thee  merited,  than  a  band  of  Clotens 
Had  ever  scar  for. — Let  his  arms  alone; 

[To  the  guard. 
They  were  not  born  for  bondage. 

Cym.  Why,  old  soldier, 

Wilt  thou  undo  the  worth  thou  art  unpaid  for, 
By  tasting  of  our  wrath?  How  of  descent 
As  good  as  we? 

^rv.  In  that  he  spake  too  far. 

Cym.  And  thou  shalt  die  for  't. 

Bel.  We  will  die  all  three : 

But  I  will  prove,  that  two  of  us  are  as  good 
As  I  have  given  out  him. — My  sons,  I  must, 
For  mine  own  part,  unfold  a  dangerous  speech. 
Though,  haply,  well  for  you. 

Arv,  Your  danger's  ours. 

Gtii.  And  our  good  his. 

Bel.  Have  at  it  then. — 

By  leave ; — Thou  hadst,  great  king,  a  subject 

who 
Was  caird  Belarius. 

Cym.  What  of  him  ?  he  is 

A  banish'd  traitor. 

Bel.  He  it  is  that  hath 

Assum'd  this  age:"  indeed,  a  banish'd  man; 
I  know  not  how  a  traitor. 
"  Assum'd  this  (/</c— put  im  these  appearances  of  age. 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Cym.  Take  him  hence ; 

The  whole  world  shall  not  save  hhn. 

Bel.  Not  too  hot: 

First  paj'  me  for  the  nursing  of  tliy  sons  ; 
And  let  it  be  confiscate  all,  so  soon 
As  I  have  receiv'd  it. 

Cym.  Niu'sing  of  my  sons? 

Bel.  I  am  too  blunt  and  saucy:  Here's  my 
knee ; 
Ere  I  arise  I  will  prefer  my  sons; 
Then,  spare  not  the  old  father.     Mighty  sir, 
These  two  young  gentlemen,  that  call  me  father. 
And  think  they  are  my  sons,  are  none  of  mine ; 
They  are  the  issue  of  your  loins,  my  liege, 
And  blood  of  your  begetting. 

Cym.  How!   my  issue? 

Bel:  So  sure  as  you  your  father's.      I,  old 
Morgan, 
Am  that  Belarius  whom  you  sometime  banish'd : 
Your  pleasure  was  my  mere  offence,  my  punish- 
ment 
Itself,  and  all  my  treason;  that  I  suffer d 
Was  all  the  harm  I  did.     These  gentle  princes 
(For  such  and  so  they  are)  these  twenty  years 
Have  I  train'd  up :  those  arts  they  have,  as  I 
Could  put  into  them ;  my  breeding  was,  sir,  as 
Your  highness  knows.     Their  nurse,  Euriphile, 
Whom  for  the  theft  I  wedded,  stole  these  childi'en 
Upon  my  banishment:   1  mov'd  her  to  't; 
Having  receiv'd  the  punishment  before. 
For  that  which  I  did  then  :   Beaten  for  loyalty. 
Excited  me  to  treason  :  Their  dear  loss. 
The  more  of  you  'twas  felt,  the  more  it  shap'd 
Unto  my  end  of  stealing  them.     But,  gracious  sir. 
Here  are  your  sons  again ;  and  I  must  lose 
Two  of  the  sweet'st  companions  in  the  world: 
The  benediction  of  these  covering  heavens 
Fall  on  their  heads  like  dew !  for  they  are  worthy 
To  inlay  heaven  with  stars. 

Cym.  Thou  weep'st,  and  speak'st. 

The  service,  that  you  three  have  done,  is  moi"e 
Unlike  than  this  thou  tell'st :  I  lost  my  children ; 
If  these  be  they,  I  know  not  how  to  wish 
A  pair  of  worthier  sons. 

Bel.  Be  pleas'd  awhile. — 

This  gentleman,  whom  I  call  Polydore, 
Most  worthy  prince,  as  yours,  is  true  Guiderius : 
This  gentleman,  my  Cadwal,  Arviragus, 
Your  younger  princely  son ;  he,  sir,  was  lapp'd 
In  a  most  curious  mantle,  wrought  by  the  hand 
Of  his  queen  mother,  which,  for  more  probation, 
I  can  with  ease  produce. 

Cym.  Guiderius  had 

Upon  his  neck  a  mole,  a  sanguine  star; 
It  was  a  mark  of  wonder. 

Traoediks. — Vol.  I.         2  1 


Bel.  This  is  he ; 

Who  hath  upon  him  still  that  natural  stamp: 
It  was  wise  Nature's  end  in  the  donation. 
To  be  his  evidence  now. 

Cym.  O,  what  am  I 

A  mother  to  the  birth  of  three  ?     Ne'er  mother 
Rejoic'd  deliverance  more : — Bless'd  may  you  be, 
That,  after  this  strange  starting  from  your  orbs, 
You  may  reign  in  them  now ! — O  Imogen, 
Thou  hast  lost  by  this  a  kingdom. 

Imo.  No,  my  lord ; 

I  have  got  two  worlds  by  "t. — O  my  gentle  bro- 
thers. 
Have  we  thus  met?     O  never  say  hereafter 
But  I  am  truest  speaker :  you  call'd  me  brother, 
When  I  was  but  your  sister;  I  you  brothers. 
When  you  were  so  indeed. 

Cym.  Did  you  e'er  meet? 

Arv.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Gui.  And  at  first  meeting  lov'd ; 

Continued  so,  until  we  thought  he  died. 
Cor.  By  the  queen's  dram  she  swallow'd. 
Cym.  O  i-are  instinct! 

When  shall  I  hear  all  through?     This  fierce 
abridgment 
i  Hath  to  it  circumstantial  branches,  which 
Distinction   should   be  rich  in.  —  Where,  how 

liv'd  you, 
And  when  came  you  to  serve  our  Roman  captive? 
How  parted  with  your  brothers?  how  first  met 

them  ? 
Why  fled  you  from  the  coiu't?    and  whither? 

These, 
And  your  three  motives  to  the  battle,  with 
I  know  not  how  much  more,  shoidd  be   de- 
manded; 
And  all  the  other  by-dependancies, 
Fi'om  chance  to  chance;  but  nor  the  time,  nor 

place. 
Will  serve  our  long  intergatories.     See, 
Posthumus  anchors  upon  Imogen; 
And  she,  like  harmless  lightning,  throws  her  eye 
On  him,  her  brothers,  me,  her  master,  hitting 
Each  object  with  a  joy;  the  counterchange 
Is  severally  in  all.     Let 's  quit  this  ground, 
And  smoke  the  temple  with  our  sacrifices. 
Thou  art  my  brother:  So  we'll  hold  thee  ever. 

\^To  Belarius. 
Imo.  You  are  my  father  too;  and  did  relieve  me. 
To  see  this  gracious  season. 

Cym.  All  o'erjoy'd, 

Save  these  in  bonds;  let  them  be  joyful  too. 
For  they  shall  taste  om-  comfort. 

Imo.  My  good  master, 

I  will  yet  do  you  service. 

215 


Act  v.] 


CYMBELINE. 


[Scene  V. 


Luc.  Happy  be  you! 

Ctjni.  The  forlorn  soldier  that  so  nobly  fought, 
He  would  have  well  becom'd  this  place,  and 

grac'd 
The  thankings  of  a  king. 

Post.  I  am,  sir. 

The  soldier  that  did  company  these  three 
In  poor  beseemhig;  'twas  a  fitment  for 
The  purpose  I  then  follow'd : — That  I  was  he, 
Speak,  lachimo:  I  had  you  down,  and  might 
Have  made  you  finish. 

luch.  I  am  down  again:  \_Kneeling. 

But  now  my  heavy  conscience  sinks  my  knee. 
As  then  your  force  did.    Take  that  life,  'beseech 

Which  I  so  often  owe :  but,  your  ring  first ; 
And  here  the  bracelet  of  the  truest  princess, 
That  ever  swore  her  faith. 

Post.  Kneel  not  to  me ; 

The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you; 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you:  Live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 

Cym.  Nobly  doom'd; 

We  '11  learn  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law ; 
Pardon's  the  word  to  all. 

Arv.  You  holp  us,  sir. 

As  you  did  mean  indeed  to  be  our  brother; 
Joy'd  are  we  that  you  are. 

Post.  Your  servant,  princes. — Good  my  lord 
of  Rome, 
Call   forth   your   soothsayer :    As   I    slept,  me- 

thought, 
Great  Jupiter,  upon  his  eagle  back, 
Appear'd  to  me,  with  other  spritely  shows 
Of  mine  own  kindred;  when  I  wak'd,  I  found 
This  label  on  my  bosom ;  whose  containing 
Is  so  from  sense  in  hardness,  that  I  can 
Make  no  collection »  of  it;  let  him  show 
His  skill  in  the  construction. 

Luc.  Philarmonus ! 

Sooth.  Here,  my  good  lord. 

Luc.  Read,  and  declare  the  meaning. 

South.  [Reads.']  When  as  a  lion's  wlielj)  shall,  to  himself 
lUiUnown,  without  seeking  find,  and  be  embraced  by  a  piece 
of  tender  air ;  and  when  from  a  stately  cedar  shall  be  lojjped 
branches,  which,  being  dead  many  years,  shall  after  revive, 
be  jiiinted  to  the  old  stock,  and  freshly  grow;  then  shall 
Posthumus  end  his  miseries,  Britain  be  fortunate,  and  flou- 
risli  in  peace  and  pleuty. 

Tliou,  Leonatus,  art  the  lion's  whelp  ; 

"  Co/lcdiun — consequence  deduced  from  premises.  So  in 
Hamlet — 

"  Her  speech  is  notliing, 
Yet  the  unshaped  use  of  it  dotli  move 
The  hearers  to  vollecdun." 


The  fit  and  apt  construction  of  thy  name. 

Being  Leo-natus,  doth  import  so  much  : 

The  piece  of  tender  air,  thy  virtuous  daughter, 

[7o  Cymbeline. 
Which  we  call  mollis  aer;  and  mollis  aer 
We  term  it  mulier :  which  nmlier  I  divine 
Is  this  most  constant  wife  ;  who,  even  now, 
Answering  the  letter  of  the  oracle. 
Unknown  to  you,  imsought,  were  clipp'd  about 
With  this  most  tender  air. 

Cym.  This  hath  some  seeming. 

Sooth.  The  lofty  cedar,  royal  Cymbeline, 
Personates  thee  :  and  thy  lopp'd  branches  point 
Thy  two  sons  forth  :  who,  by  Belarius  stolen, 
For  many  years  thought  dead,  are  now  reviv'd, 
To  the  majestic  cedar  join'd;  whose  issue 
Promises  Britain  peace  and  plenty. 

Cym.  Well, 

My  peace  we  will  begin : — And,  Caius  Lucius, 
Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire;  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute,  from  the  which 
We  were  dissuaded  by  our  wicked  queen  : 
Whom  heavens,  injustice,  (both  on  her,  andhers,) 
Have  laid  most  heavy  hand." 

Sooth.  The  fingers  of  the  powers  above  do  tune 
The  harmony  of  this  peace.     The  vision 
Which  I  made  known  to  Lucius,  ere  the  stroke 
Of  this  yet  scarce-cold  battle,  at  this  instant 
Is  full  accomplish'd:  For  the  Roman  eagle, 
From  south  to  west  on  wing  soaring  aloft, 
Lessen'd  herself,  and  in  the  beams  o'  the  sun 
So    vanish'd:     which    foreshow'd   our    princely 

eagle. 
The  imperial  Cresar,  should  again  unite 
His  favour  with  the  radiant  Cymbeline, 
Which  shines  here  in  the  west. 

Cym.  Laud  we  the  gods  ; 

And  let   our   crooked    smokes   climb   to   their 

nostrils 
From  our  bless'd  altars !  Publish  we  this  peace 
To  all  our  subjects.     Set  we  forward  :  Let 
A  Roman  and  a  British  ensign  wave 
Friendly   together:     so    through    Lud's    town 

march  ; 
And  in  the  temple  of  great  Jupiter 
Our  peace  we  '11  ratify  ;  seal  it  with  feasts. 
Set  on  there; — Never  was  a  war  did  cease, 
Ere   bloody  hands   were  wash'd,  with  such  a 
peace.  \^Exeunt. 

"  The  particle  on  is  understood.     The  same  form  of  expres- 
sion occurs  iu  Othello — 

"  What  conjurations  and  what  mighty  magie 
I  won  his  daughter  [with]." 


246 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF   ACT    V. 


'  Scene  II. — "  Enter  at  one  door  Lucius,  lacftimo, 
and  the  Roman  ormi/." 

The  engraving  lielow,  from  one  of  the  bas-reliefs 
on  tlie  column  of  Trajan,  oilers  a  striking  illustra- 
tion of  the  "  pomp  and  circumstance"  of  Roman 
war. 


«  Scene  IV 


■"  A  hearij  reckoning  for  yon, 
sir,''  &c. 


Walter  Winter  has  remarl^ed  upon  this  passage, 
— "  M.  Voltaire  himself  has  nothing  comparable  to 
the  humorous  discussion  of  the  pliilosopliic  jailer  in 
Cymbeline."  But  it  is  somefliing  more  than  hu- 
morous. It  is  as  profound,  under  a  gay  aspect,  as 
some  of  the  higliest  speculations  of  Hamlet. 

^  Scene  V. — "  Postures  beyond  brief  nature"  &c. 

Warburton  remarks,  "  It  appears  fi-om  a  number 
of  such  passages  as  these  tliat  our  author  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  fine  arts;"'  to  which  Steevens  re- 
plies, "  The  pantheons  of  his  own  age  (several  of 
which  I  have  seen)  afford  a  most  minute  and  par- 
ticular account  of  tlie  difl'erent  degrees  of  beauty 


imputed  (o  the  different  deities;  and,  as  Sliakspeve 
iiad  at  least  an  opportunity  of  reading  Cliapman's 
translation  of  Homer,  the  first  part  of  wliich  was 
publislied  in  1590,  with  additions  in  15!J8,  and  en- 
tire in  1611,  he  might  liave  taken  tliese  ideas  from 
tlience,  without  iieing  at  all  indebted  to  his  own  par- 
ticular observation,  or  acquaintance  with  statuary 
and  painting."  SteevcTis  has  liere  missed  the  point, 
as  it  was  likely  he  would  do.  That  Shakspcre  was 
familiar  with  works  of  art  we  liave  abundant  proof. 
Take,  for  example,  liis  vivid  description  in  the  Tar- 
quin  and  Lucrece  of 


Of  skilful  paintiiif) 


"  A  piece 
made  lor  Priam's  Troy." 


But  the  passage  before  us  indicates  something  more. 
In  "  postures  beyond  brief  nature"  is  shadowed  the 
highest  principle  of  liigh  art — that  it  is  not  essen- 
tially imitative — that  it  works  in  and  througli  its 
own  power,  not  in  contradiction  to  nature,  but 
heightening  and  refining  reality.  We  have  the 
same  indication  of  the  poet's  profound  knowledge 
of  these  subjects  in  Anthony  and  Cleopatra : — 

"  O'erpicturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature." 


[Roman  General,  .'^tandaid  Bearers,  fccj 


247 


[View  near  Mllforil.] 


SUPPLEMENTARY    NOTICE. 


Criticism,  even  of  that  school  to  which  we  now  yield  our  obedience — the  school  wluch  has  cast  off 
the  shackles  of  the  unities,  and  judges  of  the  romantic  drama  by  its  own  laws — has  not  looked  very 
enthusiastically  upon  Cymbeline  as  a  dramatic  whole.  To  the  exquisite  character  of  Imogen,  taken 
apart,  full  justice  has  been  done.  Richardson,  not  often  a  very  profound  critic,  has  seized  upon  the 
leading  points  with  great  correctness,  and  has  carried  them  out  with  elegance,  if  not  with  force. 
Nothing  can  be  more  just,  for  example,  than  this  observation  :  "  The  sense  of  misfortune,  rather 
than  the  sense  of  injury,  rules  the  disposition  of  Imogen."*  Mrs.  Jameson,  again,  has  analysed 
the  character  with  her  usual  acuteness  and  delicacy  of  perception:  "Others  of  Shakspere's 
characters  are,  as  dramatic  and  poetic  conceptions,  more  striking,  more  brilliant,  more  powerful  ; 
but  of  all  his  women,  considered  as  individuals  rather  than  as  heroines,  Imogen  is  the  most  per- 
fect."! But  the  relation  of  Imogen,  as  the  centre  of  a  dramatic  circle,  has  scarcely,  we  think, 
been  adequately  pointed  out.  We  pass  over  what  Dr.  Johnson  says,  in  a  tone  of  criticism  which 
belongs  as  much  to  the  age  as  to  the  man,  about  "  the  folly  of  the  fiction,  the  absurdity  of  the 
conduct,  the  confusion  of  the  names  and  manners  of  different  times,  and  the  impossibility  of  the 
events  in  any  system  of  life."  When  Johnson  wrote  this  he  reposed  upon  an  implicit  belief  in  his 
own  canons  of  criticism — the  opinions  upon  which  Thomas  Warton  has  explained  his  own  deprecia- 
tion of  Ariosto  and  Spenser  :  "  We,  who  live  in  the  days  of  writing  by  rule,  are  apt  to  try  every 
composition  by  those  laws  which  we  have  been  taught  to  think  the  sole  criterion  of  excellence. 
Critical  taste  is  universally  diffused,  and  we  require  the  same  order  and  design  which  every  modern 
jjerformance  is  expected  to  have,  in  poems  where  they  never  were  regarded  or  intended."  \ 
Warton  was  a  man  of  too  high  taste  not  in  some  degree  to  despise  this  "  criterion  of  excellence ;"  but 
he  did  not  dare  to  avow  the  heresy  in  his  own  day.  We  have  outlived  all  this.  The  "  critical 
taste"  to  which  Warton  alludes  belongs  only  to  the  history  of  criticism.  But  even  amongst  those 
upon  whom  we  have  been  accustomed  to  rely  as  infallible  guides,  it  does  appear  to  us  that  C3aTibeline 
has  been,  in  some  degree,  considered  a  departure  from  the  great  law  of  unity — not  of  time,  nor 
of  place,  but  of  feeling — which  Shakspere  has  unquestionably  prescribed  to  himself.  Tieck  highly 
praises  this  drama  ;  but  his  praise  almost  leads  to  the  opinion  that  he  regarded  the  work  as  wanting 
coherency, — as  a  succession  of  harmonies,  but  not  as  one  harmony.     "In  no  other  work  of  Shak- 

*  Essays  on  Shakspeare's  Dramatic  Characters.  +  Characteristics  of  Women.     Vol.  II.  p.  50. 

%  Observations  on  the  Fairy  Queen.     Vol.  I. 

248 


CYMBELINE. 

spere  does  there  reign  so  great  a  difference  of  stylo  ;  tlio  gallant  tone  of  the  court,  tlie  tragic 
expression  of  the  passions,  the  splendour  of  imagery,  the  tenderness  of  love,  the  perfect  naturalness 
the  entire  plainness,  almost  amounting  to  rusticity,  of  many  passages,  in  antitliesis  to  the  ohscurity 
of  others.  This  piece  still  retains  possession  of  the  English  stage— highly  attractive,  hecause  it  is 
at  the  same  time  history,  popular  tale,  tragedy,  and  comedy,  more  holdly  mixed,  and  more  freshly 
coloured,  than  in  any  other  similar  work  even  of  this  author."*  Schlegel  says — "  Cymheline 
is  one  of  Shakspere's  most  wonderfid  compositions.  He  has  connected  a  novel  of  Boccaccio  with 
traditionary  tales  of  the  ancient  Britons,  reaching  back  to  the  times  of  the  first  Roman  Emperors  ; 
and  he  has  contrived,  by  the  most  gentle  transitions,  to  blend  together  into  one  harmonious  whole 
the  social  manners  of  the  latest  time  with  heroic  deeds,  and  even  with  the  appearances  of  the 
gods."t  This  is  a  defence,  and  a  just  one,  of  what  Johnson  calls  "faults  too  evident  for  detection, 
and  too  gross  for  aggravation."  But  neither  Tieck,  nor  Schlegel,  according  to  their  usual  custom, 
attempt  to  show  that  any  predominant  idea  nms  through  Cymheline.  They  each  speak  of  it  as  a 
succession  of  splendid  scenes,  and  high  poetry  ;  and,  indeed,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  these  attri- 
butes of  this  drama  most  forcibly  seize  upon  the  mind,  somewhat,  perhaps,  to  the  exclusion  of  its 
real  action.  In  Cymheline,  we  are  thrown  back  into  the  half-fabidous  history  of  our  own  country, 
and  see  all  objects  under  the  dim  light  of  uncertain  events  and  manners.  We  have  civilisation 
contending  with  semi-barbarism  ;  the  gorgeous  worship  of  the  Pagan  world  subduing  to  itself  the 
more  simple  worship  of  the  Druidical  times  ;  kings  and  courtiers  suiTounded  with  the  splendour  of 
"barbaric  pearl  and  gold;"  and,  even  in  those  days  of  simplicity,  a  wilder  and  a  simpler  life, 
amidst  the  fastnesses  of  moimtains,  and  the  solitude  of  caves — the  hunters'  life,  who  "  have  seen 
nothing  " — 

"  Subtle  ^s  the  fox  for  prey. 
Like  waiUke  as  the  wolf," — 

but  who  yet,  in  their  natural  piety,  know  "  how  to  adore  the  heavens."  If  these  attributes  of  the 
drama  had  been  less  absorbing,  we  perhaps  might  have  more  readily  seen  the  real  com-se  of  the 
dramatic  action.  We  venture  with  great  diffidence  to  express  our  opinion,  that  one  predominant 
idea  does  exist ;  for  Coleridge,  even  more  distinctly  than  the  German  critics,  if  we  apprehend  him 
rightly,  inferred  the  contrary  : — "  In  the  Twelfth  Night,  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  As  You  Like 
It,  and  Winter's  Tale,  the  total  effect  is  produced  by  a  co-ordination  of  the  characters  as  in  a  wreath 
of  flowers.  But  in  Coriolanus,  Lear,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Hamlet,  Othello,  &c.,  the  effect  arises 
from  the  subordination  of  all  to  one,  either  as  the  prominent  person,  or  the  principal  object." 
Coleridge  is  speaking  of  the  great  significancy  of  the  names  of  Shakspere's  plays.  The  consonancy 
of  the  names  with  the  leadhig  ideas  of  each  drama  is  exemplified  in  this  passage.  He  then  adds — 
"Cymheline  is  the  only  exception;"  that  is,  the  name  of  Cymheline  neither  expresses  the  co- 
ordination of  the  characters,  nor  the  principal  object.  He  goes  on  to  say,  "  Even  that "  (the  name 
of  Cymheline)  "has  its  advantages  in  preparing  the  audience  for  the  chaos  of  time,  place,  and 
costume,  by  throwing  the  date  back  into  a  fabulous  king's  reign."  We  do  not  understand  that 
Coleridge  meant  to  say  that  the  play  of  Cymheline  had  neither  co-ordination  of  characters  nor  a 
prominent  object ;  but  we  do  apprehend  that  the  name  was  symbolical,  in  his  belief,  of  the  main 
features  of  the  play — the  chaos  of  time,  place,  and  costume.  For  he  proceeds,  immediately,  to 
remark,  in  reference  to  the  judgment  displayed  by  our  tmly  dramatic  poet  in  the  management 
of  his  first  scenes,  "  JVilh  the  single  exception  of  Cijmheline,  they  place  before  us  at  one  glance 
both  the  past  and  the  future  in  some  effect,  which  implies  the  continuance  and  fidl  agency  of  its 
cause. "+  We  venture  to  believe  that  Cjanbeline  does  not  form  an  exception  to  the  usual  course 
pursued  by  Shakspere  in  the  management  of  his  first  scenes ;  and  that  the  first  scenes  of  Cymhe- 
line do  place  before  us  the  past  and  the  future  in  a  way  vjhich  we  think  very  strikingly  discloses 
what  he  intended  to  be  the  leading  idea  of  his  drama. 

The  dialogue  of  the  "  two  Gentlemen"  in  the  opening  scene  makes  us  perfectly  acquainted  with 
the  relations  in  which  Posthumus  and  Imogen  stand  to  each  other,  and  to  those  around  them. 
"  She's  wedded,  her  husband  banish'd. ' '  We  have  next  the  character  of  the  banished  husband,  and 
of  the  unworthy  suitor  who  is  the  cause  of  his  banishment ;  as  well  as  the  story  of  the  king's  two 

*  Shalvspeare's  Diamatiscue  Werke.     Vol.  IX.  p.  374.  t  Licturcs  on  Dramatic  Literature.     Vol.11. 

X  Literary  Remains.     Vol.  II.  p.  20/. 

249 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

lost  sons.  This  is  essentially  the  foundation  of  the  past  and  future  of  the  action.  Brief  indeed  is 
this  scene,  but  it  well  prepares  lis  for  the  parting  of  Posthumus  and  Imogen.  The  course  of  their 
affections  is  turned  awry  by  the  wills  of  others.  The  angry  king  at  once  proclaims  himself  to  us 
as  one  not  cruel  but  weak  ;  he  has  before  been  described  as  "  touch'd  at  very  heart."  It  is  only 
in  the  intensity  of  her  affection  for  Posthumus  that  Imogen  opposes  her  own  will  to  the  impatient 
violence  of  her  father,  and  the  more  crafty  decision  of  her  step-mother.      But   she  is  surrounded 

with  a  third  evil, — 

"  A  fatlier  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false, 
A  loolisli  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady." 

Worse,  however,  even  than  these,  her  honour  is  to  be  assailed,  her  character  vilified,  by  a  subtle 
stranger  ;  who,  perhaps  more  in  sport  than  in  malice,  has  resolved  to  win  a  paltry  wager  by  the 
sacrifice  of  her  happiness  and  that  of  her  husband.  What  has  she  to  oppose  to  all  this  compli- 
cation of  violence  and  cunning  ?  Her  perfect  purity — her  entire  simplicity — her  freedom  from 
everything  that  is  selfish — the  strength  only  of  her  affections.  The  scene  between  lachimo  and 
Imoo-en  is  a  contest  of  innocence  with  guile,  most  profoundly  affecting,  in  spite  of  the  few  coarse- 
nesses that  were  perhaps  luiavoidable,  and  which  were  not  considered  offensive  in  Shakspere's  day. 
The  supreme  beauty  of  Imogen's  character  soars  triumphantly  out  of  the  impure  mist  which  is 
around  her  ;  and  not  the  least  part  of  that  beauty  is  her  ready  forgiveness  of  her  assailant,  briefly 
and  flutteringly  expressed,  however,  when  he  relies  upon  the  possibility  of  deceiving  her  through 
her  affections : — 

' '  O  happy  Leoiiatus !  I  may  say  ; 
The  credit  that  thy  lady  hath  of  thee 
Deserves  thy  trust ;  and  thy  most  perfect  goodness 
Her  assur'd  credit !" 

This  is  the  First  Act;  and,  if  we  mistake  not  the  object  of  Shakspere,  these  openhig  scenes 
exhibit  one  of  the  most  confiding  and  gentle  of  human  beings,  assailed  on  every  side  by  a  deter- 
mination of  purpose,  whether  in  the  shajie  of  violence,  wickedness,  or  folly,  against  which,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  innocence  may  be  supposed  to  be  an  insufficient  shield.  But  the  very 
helplessness  of  Imogen  is  her  protection.  In  the  exquisite  Second  Scene  of  the  Second  Act,  the 
perfect  purity  of  Imogen,  as  interpreted  by  Shakspere,  has  converted  what  would  have  been  a  most 
dangerous  situation  in  the  hands  of  another  poet — Fletcher,  for  example — into  one  of  the  most 
refined  delicacy  : — 

"  Tis  1  er  brealhing 
That  perfumes  the  chamber  thus." 

The  immediate  danger  is  passed ;  but  there  is  a  new  danger  approaching.  The  will  of  her  un- 
happy husband,  deceived  into  madness,  is  to  be  added  to  the  evils  which  she  has  already  received 
from  violence  and  selfishness.  Posthumus,  intending  to  destroj'  her,  writes  "  Take  notice  that  I 
am  in  Cambria  at  Milford-Haven  ;  what  your  own  love  will  out  of  this  advise  you,  follow."  She 
does  follow  her  own  love ; — she  has  no  other  guide  but  the  strength  of  her  affections ;  that 
strength  makes  her  hardy  and  fearless  of  consequences.  It  is  the  one  duty,  as  well  as  the  one 
pleasure,  of  her  existence.  How  is  that  affection  requited?  Pisanio  places  in  her  hand,  when  they 
have  reached  the  deepest  solitude  of  the  mountains,  that  letter  by  which  he  is  commanded  to  take 
away  her  life.  One  passing  thought  of  herself — one  faint  reproach  of  her  husband,  —  and  she  sub- 
mits to  the  fate  which  is  prepared  for  her : — • 

"  Come,  fellow,  bo  thou  honest: 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding  :  When  thou  see'st  him, 
A  little  witness  my  obedii'nce  :  Look  I 
I  draw  the  sword  myself :  take  it ;  and  hit 
Tiie  inaoceiit  mansiou  of  my  love,  my  heart." 

But  her  truth  and  innocence  have  already  subdued  the  will  of  the  sworn  servant  of  her  husband. 
He  comforts  her,  but  he  necessarily  leaves  her  in  the  wilderness.  The  spells  of  evil  wills  are  still 
around  her : — 

"  My  noble  mistress. 
Here  is  a  box,  I  had  it  from  the  queen." 

Pei'haps  there  is  nothing  in  Shakspere   more  beautifully  managed,  —  more  touching  in  its  ro- 
mance,— more  essentially  true  to  nature, — than  the  scenes  between  Imogen   and  her  unknown 
250 


CYMBELINE. 

brotliers.  Tlic  gentleness,  the  grace,  the  "  grief  and  patience,"  of  the  helpless  Fidele,  producing 
at  once  the  deepest  reverence  and  affection  in  the  bold  and  daring  mountaineers,  still  carry- 
forward the  character  of  Imogen  under  the  same  aspects.  Belarius  has  beautifully  described  the 
brothers :  — 

"  They  are  as  gi'ntle 
As  zephyrs,  blowing  below  the  \  iolet. 
Not  wagging  his  sweet  head  :  and  yet,  as  rough, 
Tlieir  royal  blood  eiichal'd,  as  the  riid'st  wind, 
That  by  the  top  doth  talce  the  mountain  pine. 
And  make  him  stoop  to  the  vale." 

It  was  in  their  gentleness  that  Imogen  found  a  support  for  her  gentleness  ; — it  was  in  their  rouo-h- 
ness  that  the  roughness  of  Cloten  met  its  punishment.  Imogen  is  still  saved  from  the  dangers 
with  which  craft  and  violence  have  surrounded  her.  When  she  swallows  the  supposed  medicine 
of  the  queen,  we  know  beforehand  that  the  evil  intentions  of  her  step-mother  have  been  counter- 
acted by  the  benevolent  intentions  of  the  physician : — 

"  I  do  know  her  spirit. 
And  will  not  trust  one  oflier  malice  witli 
A  drug  of  such  damn'd  nature ." 

"The  bird  is  dead;"  she  was  sick,  and  we  almost  fear  that  the  Avords  of  the  dirge  are  true  : — 

"  Fear  no  more  the  frown  of  the  great, 
Thou  art  pass'd  the  tyrant's  stroke." 

But  slie  awakes,  and  she  has  still  to  endure  the  last  and  the  worst  evil — her  husband,  in  her  ap- 
prehension, lies  dead  before  her.  She  has  no  wrongs  to  think  of — "  O  my  lord,  my  lord,"  is  all, 
in  connexion  with  Posthumus,  that  escapes  amidst  her  tears.  The  beauty  and  innocence  which 
saved  her  from  lachimo, — which  conquered  Pisanio, — which  won  the  wild  hunters, — commend  her 
to  the  Roman  general — she  is  at  once  protected.      But  she  has  holy  duties  still  to  perform  : — 

"  I'll  follow,  sir.     Bvit,  first,  an't  please  the  gods, 
I'll  hide  my  master  from  the  flies,  as  deep 
As  these  poor  pickaxes  can  dig:  and  when 
With  wild  wood-leaves  and  weeds  I  have  strew'd  his  grave. 
And  on  it  said  a  centui-y  of  prayers. 
Such  as  I  can,  twice  o'er,  I'll  weep  and  sigh  ; 
And,  leaving  so  his  service,  follow  you, 
So  please  you  entertain  me." 

It  is  the  unconquerable  affection  of  Imogen  which  makes  us  pity  Posthumus  even  while  we  blame 
him  for  the  rash  exercise  of  his  revengeful  will.  But  in  his  deep  repentance  we  more  than  pity 
him.     We  see  only  another  victim  of  worldly  craft  and  selfishness  : — 

"  Gods  !  if  you 
Should  have  ta'en  vengeance  on  my  faults,  I  never 
Had  liv'd  to  put  on  this  ;  so  had  you  saved 
The  noble  Imogen  to  repent ;  and  struck 
Me,  wretch,  more  worth  your  vengeance." 

In  the  prison  scene  his  spirit  is  again  united  with  hers  : — 

"  O  Imogen, 
I'll  speak  to  thee  in  silence." 

The  contest  we  now  feel  is  over  between  the  selfish  and  the  unselfish,  the  crafty  and  the  simple, 
the  proud  and  the  meek,  the  violent  and  the  gentle. 

It  is  scarcely  within  our  purpose  to  follow  the  unravelling  of  the  incidents  in  the  concluding 
scene.  Steevens  has  worthily  endeavoured  to  make  amends  for  the  injustice  of  the  criticism  which 
Cymbeline  has  received  from  his  associate  commentator : — "  Let  those  who  talk  so  confidently 
about  the  skill  of  Sliakspeare's  contemporary,  Jonson,  point  out  the  conclusion  of  any  one  of  his 
plays  which  is  wrought  with  more  artifice,  and  j'et  a  less  degree  of  dramatic  violence,  than  this. 
In  the  scene  before  us,  all  the  surviving  characters  are  assembled ;  and  at  the  expense  of  whatever 
incongruity  the  former  events  may  have  been  produced,  perhaps  little  can  be  discovered  on  this 
occasion  to  offend  the  most  scrupulous  advocate  for  regularitj' :  and,  I  think,  as  little  is  foiuid 
wanting  to  satisfy  the  spectator  by  a  catastrophe  which  is  intricate  without  confusion,  and  not 
more  rich  in  ornament  than  in  nature." 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


The  conclusion  of  Cymbeline  has  been  lauded  because  it  is  consistent  vi'iih  poetical  jusiice.  Those 
who  adopt  this  species  of  reasoning  look  very  imperfectly  upon  the  course  of  real  events  in  the 
moral  world.  It  is  permitted,  for  inscrutable  piu-poses,  that  the  innocent  should  sometimes  fall 
before  the  wicked,  and  the  noble  be  subjected  to  the  base.  In  the  same  way,  it  is  sometimes  in 
the  course  of  events  that  the  pure  and  the  gentle  should  triumph  over  deceit  and  outrage.  The 
perishing  of  Desdemona  is  as  true  as  the  safety  of  Imogen;  and  the  poetical  truth  involves  as  high 
a  moral  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  That  Shakspere's  notion  of  poetical  justice  was  not  the 
hackneyed  notion  of  an  intolerant  age,  reflected  even  by  a  Boccaccio,  is  shown  by  the  difference 
in  the  lot  of  the  offender  in  the  Italian  tale  and  the  lot  of  lachimo.  The  Ambrogiolo  of  the  no- 
velist, who  slanders  a  virtuous  lady  for  the  gain  of  a  wager,  is  fastened  to  a  stake,  smeared  with 
honey,  and  left  to  be  devoured  by  flies  and  locusts.  The  close  of  om-  dramatist's  story  is  perfect 
Shakspere : — 

"  Post.  Speak,  lacliirao ;  I  had  you  down,  and  might 
Have  made  you  finish. 
lach.  I  am  down  again; 

But  now  my  heavy  conscience  sinks  my  knee. 

As  then  your  force  did.     Take  that  life,  'beseech  you, 

Which  I  so  often  owe :  but,  your  ring  first. 

And  here  the  bracelet  of  the  truest  princess 

That  ever  swore  licr  faith. 

Kneel  not  to  me  ; 
The  power  that  I  have  on  you  is  to  spare  you ; 
The  malice  towards  you  to  forgive  you  :  Live, 
And  deal  with  others  better. 

Nobly  doom'd: 
We  leara  our  freeness  of  a  son-in-law ; 
Pardon's  the  word  to  all." 


Pust. 


Cym. 


[Roman  and  British  Weapons] 


•252 


>*_•■? 


[General  of  Venice,  in  time  of  w.ir.     Vicellio — Habiti  Autichi.] 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTICE. 


State  op  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Othello. 

On  the  6th  of  October,  1621,  Thomas  Walkley  entered  at  Stationers' Hall  '  The  Tragedie  of 
Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice.'  In  1622,  Walkley  published  the  edition  for  which  he  had  thus 
claimed  the  copy.  It  is,  as  was  usual  with  the  separate  plays,  a  small  quarto,  and  it  bears  the  fol- 
lowing title  : — '  The  Tragcedy  of  Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice.  As  it  hath  beene  diverse  times  acted 
at  the  Globe,  and  at  the  Black-Friars,  by  his  Majesties  Servants.  Written  by  William  Shake- 
speare.' It  contains,  also,  a  prefatory  address,  which  is  curious : — "  The  Stationer  to  the  Reader. 
To  set  forth  a  book  without  an  Epistle  were  like  to  the  old  English  proverb,  a  blue  coat  without  a 
badge  ;  and  the  author  being  dead,  I  thought  good  to  take  that  piece  of  work  upon  me  :  to  com- 
mend it  I  will  not :  for  that  which  is  good,  I  hope  every  man  will  commend,  without  entreaty  : 
and  I  am  the  bolder,  because  the  author's  name  is  sufficient  to  vent  his  work.  Thus  leaving  every 
one  to  the  liberty  of  judgment,  I  have  ventured  to  print  this  play,  and  leave  it  to  the  general  cen- 
sure.    Yours,  Thomas  Walkley." 

'  The  Tragedie  of  Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice,'  commences  on  page  310  of  the  Tragedies  in 
the  first  folio  collection.  It  extends  to  page  339  ;  and  after  it  follow,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  and 
Cymbeline.  It  is  not  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall  by  the  proprietors  of  the  folio  edition,  which  affords 
some  presumption  that  Walkley  was  legally  entitled  to  his  copy.  But  it  is  by  no  means  certain  to 
our  minds  that  Walkley's  edition  was  published  before  the  folio.  The  usual  date  of  that  edition  is, 
as  our  readers  know,  1623  ;  but  there  is  a  copy  in  existence  bearing  the  date  of  1622.  We  have, 
however,  no  doubt,  that  the  copy  of  Othello  in  the  folio  was  printed  from  a  manuscript  copy,  with- 
out reference  to  the  quarto  ;  for  there  are  typographical  errors  in  the  folio,  ai'ising,  no  dovibt,  from 
illegibility  in  the  manviscvipt,  which  would  certainly  have  been  avoided  had  the  copy  been  com- 
pared with  an  edition  printed  from  another  manuscript.  The  fair  inference,  therefore,  is,  that  the 
Othello  of  the  folio  was  printed  off"  before  the  quarto  of  1622  appeared.  Had  it  been  the  last  play 
in  the  book  we  should  have  retained  the  same  opinion,  from  internal  evidence.     As  two  plays  suc- 

255 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

ceed  it  in  the  volume,  we  are  strengthened  in  the  belief  that  the  original  quarto  and  folio  editions 
were  printing  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

1  he  modern  editors  of  Shakspere,  witliout  regard  to  these  circumstances,  speak  of  the  quarto 
edition  of  Othello  as  the  first  edition — the  more  ancient  copy.     We  can  understand  how  they  have 
attached,  and,  in  some  instances  very  properly,  great  importance  to  an  edition  which  has  been 
prmted  in  the  author's  lifetime.     They  have,  indeed,  in  our  opinion,  not  allowed  sufficient  import- 
ance to  the  fact,  that  the  editors  of  the  folio  explicitly  declare  that  those  plays  which  have  been 
printed  before  the  folio  are  in  that  edition  offered  to  the  reader's  view  "  cured,  and  perfect  of  their 
lunbs,  and  all  the  rest  absolute  in  their  numbers  as  he  (Shakspere)  conceived  them  ,"  and,  further, 
they  have  resolved  to  overlook  their  affirmation  that  they  printed  from  manuscript : — "  what  he 
thought  he  uttered  with  that  easiness  that  we  have  scarce  received  from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers." 
But  in  some  cases,  such  as  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  and  The  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  the  quarto 
and  the  folio  editions  vary  so  slightly,  that  we  can  scarcely  doubt  that  each  was  printed  from  the 
author's  unaltered  copy.     In  the  case  before  us  the  differences  are  most  startling.      The  stationer 
who  publishes  the  quarto  copy  tells  us  that  the  author  is  dead,  and  that  he  has  ventured  to  print 
the  play  ;  but  he  does  not  tell  from  what  copy  he  printed  it,  nor  how  he  obtained  the  copy.     The 
editors  of  the  folio  distinctly  tell  us  that  they  have  printed  from  the  author's  manuscript — that  other 
cojiies  are  stolen  and  surreptitious,  maimed  and  deformed.     There  must  surely,  then,  have  been 
some  very  strong  reason  for  inducing  the  later  and  more  authoritative  editors,  Steevens  and  Malone, 
to  make  the  quarto  the  basis  of  their  text  of  Othello,   instead  of  the  folio.     Speaking  without  the 
least  desire  beyond  that  of  wishing  to  present  our  readers  with  the  most  genuine  text,  we  can- 
not call  their  preference  of  the  quarto  to  the  folio,  in  this  instance,  by  any  other  name  than  judicial 
blindness  ;  and  we  have,  therefore,  after  the   most  careful  examination,  but  without  the  slightest 
doubt,  adopted  the  text  of  the  folio.     The  folio  edition  is  regularly  divided  into  acts  and  scenes  ; 
the  quarto  edition  has  not  a  single  indication  of  any  subdivision  in  the  acts,  and  omits  the  division 
between  Acts  ii.  and  iii.     The  folio  edition  contains  163  lines  which  are  not  found  in  the  qviarto, 
and  these  some  of  the  most  striking  in  the  play  ;  namely,  35  in  Act  i.  ;    6  in   Act  ii. ;   20  in 
Act  HI. ;  75  in  Act  iv. ;  and  27  in  Act  v. :  the  number  of  lines  found  in  the  quarto  which  are 
not  in  the  folio  do  not  amount  to  10.     The  quarto,  then,  has  not  the  merit  of  being  the  fuller  copy. 
But   is  it  more  accurate  in  those  parts  which  are  common  to  both  copies  ?     This  is  a  question 
which  we  cannot  here  enter  upon  in  detail.     In  our  foot-notes  we  have  set  forth  every  deviation 
from  the  current  text  which  we  have  made  upon  the  authority  of  the  folio,  and  each  reading  must 
be  jiulged  upon  its  own  merits.     We  venture  to  think  that  in  some  remarkable  instances  we  have 
restored  Shakspere  to  what  he  really  was.     With  an  old  author  it  sometimes  happens  as  with  an  old 
picture — what  is  genuine  lies  beneath  dirt  and  varnish. 

The  date  of  the  first  pi-oduction  of  Othello  is  settled  as  near  as  we  can  desire  it  to  be.  The  play 
certainly  belongs  to  the  most  vigorous  period  of  Shakspere's  intellect  —  "  at  its  very  point  of  culmi- 
nation." Chalmers,  upon  the  verj^  questionable  belief  that  the  expression  ?ie?i;  heraldry  xeievs,  to 
the  creation  by  James  I.  of  the  order  of  baronets,  gave  it  to  1614  ;  Malone,  in  the  early  editions  of 
his'  Essay,'  to  1611 ;  Drake,  to  1612.  In  the  later  edition  of  Malone's  '  Essay,'  pubHshed  by 
Boswell,  in  1821,  Malone  says,  without  any  explanation,  "  we  Icnow  it  was  acted  in  1604,  and  I 
have  therefore  placed  it  in  that  year."  Mr.  Collier,  however,  has  been  able  most  satisfactorily  to 
place  it  two  years  earlier.  There  are  detailed  accounts  preserved  at  Bridgewater  House,  in  the 
handwriting  of  Sir  Arthur  Main  waring,  of  the  expenses  incurred  by  Sir  Thomas  Egerton,  afterwards 
Lord  Ellesmere,  in  entertaining  Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  court  three  days  at  Harefield.  Amongst 
the  entries  in  these  accounts  is  the  following  : — 

"  6  Aug.  1602.    Rewaides  to  the  Vaulters  Players  and  Dauucers.     Of  this 

iflO  to  Burbiilge's  players  of  Othello     ....     64     18    10." 
Burbidge's  players  were  those  of  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe— Shakspere's  company.     Mr.  Collier 
adds,  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  presume  that  the  dramas  represented  on  these  joyous  occa- 
sions for  the  amusement  of  Elizabeth  were  usually  new  and  popular  performances.     Othello  was 
unquestionably  popular,  and  most  likely  new,  in  1602."  * 

*  New  Particulars,  &c 
256 


OTHELLO. 

Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 

Of  the  novel  of  Cinthio,  'II  Moro  di  Venezia,' from  which  the  general  notion  of  Othello  was 
nnquestionably  derived,  we  have  given  an  extract  in  our  Supplementary  Notice.  It  is  not  impro- 
bable that  the  tale  is  of  Oriental  origin  ;  for  the  revenge  of  the  Moor,  as  described  by  Cinthio,  ia 
of  that  fierce  and  barbarous  character  which  is  akin  to  the  savage  manner  in  which  supposed  in- 
continence Is  revenged  amongst  the  Arabs.  The  painfully  affecting  tale  of  the  '  Three  Apples,' 
in  'The  Thousand  and  One  Nights,'  is  an  example  of  this;  and,  further,  there  is  a  similarity 
between  the  stolen  apple  and  the  stolen  handkerchief.  The  malignity  of  the  slave  in  the  Arabian 
tale,  too,  is  almost  as  motiveless  as  that  of  lago.  We  extract  the  main  incidents  of  the  tale  from 
the  beautiful  translation  of  Mr.  Lane. 

"  Know,  O  Prince  of  the  Faithful,  that  this  damsel  was  my  wife,  and  the  daughter  of  my  uncle  ;  this  sheykh  was  her 
father,  and  is  my  uncle  I  married  her  when  she  was  a  virgin,  and  God  blessed  me  with  three  male  children  by  her  ;  and 
she  loved  me  and  served  me,  and  I  saw  in  her  no  evil.  At  the  commencement  of  tliis  month  she  was  attacked  by  a  severe 
illness,  and  I  brought  to  her  the  physicians,  who  attended  her  until  her  health  returned  to  her  ;  and  I  desired  them  to  send 
her  to  the  balli ;  but  she  said  to  me,  I  want  something  before  I  enter  the  bath,  for  I  liave  a  longing  for  it.  What  is  it  ?  said 
I.  She  answered,  I  have  a  longing  for  an  apple,  to  smell  it,  and  take  a  bite  from  it.  So  I  went  out  immediately  into  the 
city,  and  searched  for  the  apple,  and  would  have  bought  it  had  its  price  been  a  piece  of  gold  ;  but  I  could  find  not  one.  I 
passed  the  next  night  full  of  thought,  and  when  the  morning  came  I  quitted  my  house  again,  and  went  about  to  all  the  gar- 
dens, one  after  another,  yet  I  found  none  in  them.  There  met  me,  however,  au  old  gardener,  of  whom  I  inquired  for  the 
apple,  and  he  said  to  me,  O  my  son,  this  is  a  rare  thing,  and  not  to  be  found  Iiere,  nor  anywhere  excepting  in  the  garden 
of  the  Prince  of  the  Faithful  at  El-Basrah,  and  preserved  there.  Khaleefeh.  I  returned  therefore  to  my  wife,  and  my  love 
for  her  so  constrained  me  that  I  prepared  myself  and  journeyed  fifteen  days,  by  night  and  day,  in  going  and  returning,  and 
brought  her  three  apples,  which  I  purcliased  of  the  gardener  at  El-liasrah  for  tliree  pieces  of  gold  ;  and,  going  in,  I  handed 
tliem  to  her  ;  but  she  was  not  pleased  by  them,  and  left  them  by  her  side.  Slie  was  then  suffering  from  a  violent  fever,  and 
she  continued  ill  during  a  period  of  ten  days. 

"  After  this  she  recovered  her  health,  and  I  went  out  and  repaired  to  my  shop,  and  sat  there  to  sell  and  buy;  and  while  I 
was  thus  occupied,  at  mid-day  there  passed  by  me  a  black  slave,  having  in  his  hand  an  apple,  with  vvliich  he  was  playing  ;  so  I 
said  to  him,  Wlience  didst  thou  get  this  apple,  for  I  would  procure  one  like  it? — upon  %vhioh  he  laughed,  and  answered,  I  got 
it  from  my  sweetheart :  I  had  been  absent,  and  came  and  found  her  ill,  and  she  had  three  apples  ;  and  she  said  to  me,  my  un- 
suspecting husband  journeyed  to  El-Basrah  for  them,  and  bought  them  for  three  pieces  of  gold ;  and  I  took  this  apple  from 
her.  Wlien  I  heard  the  words  of  the  slave,  O  Prince  of  the  Faithful,  tlie  world  became  black  before  my  face,  and  I  shut  up 
my  shop,  and  returned  to  my  house,  deprived  of  my  reason  by  excessive  rage.  I  found  not  the  third  apple,  and  said  to  her, 
Wliere  is  the  apple  ?  she  answered,  I  know  not  wliither  it  is  gone.  I  was  convinced  thus  that  the  slave  had  spoken  the  truth, 
and  I  arose,  and  took  a  knife,  and,  throwing  myself  upon  her  bosom,  plunged  the  knife  into  her ;  I  then  cut  off  her  head  and 
limbs,  and  put  them  in  the  basket  in  haste,  and  covered  them  with  the  izar,  over  wliich  I  laid  a  piece  of  carpet ;  then  I  put 
the  basket  in  the  chest,  and,  having  locked  this,  conveyed  it  on  my  mule,  and  threw  it  with  my  own  hands  into  the  Tigris." 


Period  of  the  Action  and   Locality. 

The  republic  of  Venice  became  the  virtual  sovereigns  of  Cyprus,  in  1471  ;  when  the  state  as- 
sumed the  guardianship  of  the  son  of  Catharine  Cornaro,  who  had  married  the  illegitimate  son  of 
John  III.,  of  Lusignan,  and,  being  left  a  widow,  wanted  the  protection  of  the  state  to  maintain  the 
power  which  her  husband  had  usurped.  The  island  was  then  first  garrisoned  by  Venetian  troops. 
Catharine,  in  1489,  abdicated  the  sovereignty  in  favour  of  the  republic.  Cyprus  was  retained  by 
the  Venetians  till  1570,  when  it  was  invaded  by  a  powerful  Tiu-kish  force,  and  was  finally  sub- 
jected to  the  dominion  of  Selim  II.,  in  1571.  From  that  period  it  has  formed  a  part  of  the  Turkish 
empire.  Leikosia,  the  inland  capital  of  the  island,  was  taken  by  storm  ;  and  Famagusta,  the  prin- 
cipal sea-port,  capitulated  after  a  long  and  gallant  defence.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  we  must 
refer  the  action  of  Othello  to  a  period  before  the  subjugation  of  Cyprus  by  the  Turks.  The  locality 
of  the  scenes  after  the  first  Act  must  be  placed  at  Famagusta,  which  was  strongly  fortified, — a  fact 
which  Shakspere  must  have  known,  when  in  the  second  Scene  of  the  third  Act  he  says, — 

"  I  will  be  walking  on  the  works." 
The  interesting  series  of  sketches,  of  which  we  have  been  fortunate  in  obtaining  copies  from  the 
portfolio  of  Mr.  Arundale,  exhibit  to  us  the  principal  remains  of  the  old  fort  and  town  of  Famagusta, 
in  Avhich  the  towers  and  colonnades  of  the  Venetians  are  mingled  with  the  minarets  of  the  Turks, 
and  where  the  open  space  in  which  stands  the  half  ruin  of  a  fine  old  Christian  church  is  now  called 
"  the  Place  of  the  Mosque." 


257 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


[Morion.     Meyrick's  Collection.] 
Costume. 

The  general  costume  of  Venice,  both  male  and  female,  as  well  as  the  official  habits  of  the  doge 
and  senators,*  at  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century,  having  been  described  in  the  prefatory  notice  to 
The  Merchant  of  Venice,  we  have  now  but  to  speak  of  the  military  costume  of  the  republic  at  that 
period,  to  which  also  belongs  the  tragedy  of  Othello. 

To  commence  with  its  dusky  hero.  There  has  been  much  difference  of  opinion  concerning  the 
proper  habit  of  this  character,  some  contending  that  as  general  of  the  Venetian  army  he  should 
wear  a  Venetian  dress,  and  others,  that  the  Moorish  garb  was  the  most  correct,  as  well  as  the  most 
effective.  To  decide  this  point  it  must  first  be  ascertained  whether  Othello  is  a  Christian  or  a  Mo- 
hammedan  ;  and  his  marriage  with  a  lady  of  the  former  persuasion  would  be  alone  sufficient  to  prove 
that  he  had  renounced  the  creed  of  his  ancestors,  had  we  not  the  express  testimony  of  lago  as  to 
the  fact : — 

"  And  then  for  her, 
To  win  the  Moor — were  't  to  renounce  hh    aptism. 
All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin — 
His  soul  is  so  eufetter'd  to  her  love,"  &c. — Act  ii.  Sc.  iii. 

There  ought,  therefore,  to  be  no  question  as  to  which  habit  is  the  more  correct  of  the  two,  as  the 
convert  would  indubitably  put  off  his  turban  with  his  faith,  and  assume  the  dress  of  that  republic 
whose  religion  he  had  adopted,  and  whose  officer  he  had  become.  Indeed,  from  the  commence- 
ment of  the  second  act,  there  can  be  neither  doubt  nor  choice  allowed  on  the  subject,  as  the  general 
of  the  Venetian  forces,  to  whatever  nation  he  might  trace  his  birth  (and  it  was  always  a  foreig7ier 
who  was  selected  for  that  office,  "  Lest,"  as  Paulus  Jovius  says,  "  any  one  of  their  own  country- 
men might  be  puffed  up  with  pride,  and  grow  too  ambitious"),  assumed,  on  the  day  of  his  election, 
a  peculiar  habit,  consisting  of  a  full  gown  of  crimson  velvet  with  loose  sleeves,  over  which  was  worn 
a  mantle  of  cloth  of  gold,  buttoned  upon  the  right  shoulder  with  massy  gold  buttons.  The  cap  was 
of  crimson  velvet,  and  the  baton  of  office  was  of  silver,f  ensigned  with  the  winged  lion  of  St.  Mark.J 
The  figure  engraved  at  p.  255  is  from  Vecellio's  often  quoted  work,  and  represents  the  identical  dress 
worn  by  prince  Veniero,  when  he  was  raised  to  that  dignity  on  the  very  occasion  which  Shakspere 
has  selected  for  the  like  appointment  of  his  "  valiant  Moor,"  namely,  the  Turkish  war,  a.d.  1570. § 
Another  portrait  of  prince  Veniero  is  engraved  in  a  work  entitled,  '  Habiti  d'  Huomini  e  Donne 
Venetiane,' 4to.  Ven.  1609,  representing  liim  in  armovu-,  but  still  wearing  the  mantle  and  bearing 
the  baton  aforesaid.  In  one  part  of  the  play,  it  may  be  remembered,  Otliello  speaks  of  "  his  helm," 
and  the  last-mentioned  portrait  shows  that  in  absolute  action  he  would  have  worn  the  armour  of  the 
period,  which  was  nearly  the  same  all  over  Christian  Europe.  Howell  states  that  Venice  had  in 
perpetual  pay  "  GOO  men  of  arms,"  who  were  for  the  most  part  gentlemen  of  Lombardy;  these 
served  on  horseback,  and  were  armed  cap-si-pie.  None  of  these,  however,  were  in  Cyprus  at  the 
period  alluded  to  in  this  tragedy,  as  appears  by  the  following  passages : — 

*  We  take  this  oppoitiinity  of  mentiouin;,'  Ihat  the  cuts  represetiting  "  a  Venetian  Clavissimo,"  and  "  a  Doctor  of  Laws  of 
Padua,"  in  the  nutice  ot  tlie  Costume  of  tlie  Meichaiit  of  Venice,  were  by  accident  transposed  in  part  of  the  impression.  The 
figure  with  his  back  turned  to  the  spectators  is  tluit  of  the  Paduan  LL.D.  The  other  exliibits  tlie  gown  with  sleeves  "  a 
comito,"  or  "  agoniito,"  which  may  be  rendered  elbuived  sleeves,  and  was  the  general  outol'-door's  habit  of  tlie  nobility  of  Venice, 
— the  official  gown  of  the  members  of  the  Council,  the  Savi,  Proveditore,  &c.,  having  large  open  sleeves  hanging  almost  to 
the  ground. 

t  "  Portando  in  mano  il  baston  d'argente." — C.  Vecellio,  edit.  1590. 

%  Vide  Portrait  of  Prince  Veniero — "  Habiti  d'lluomini  e  Donne  Venetiane." — 4to.  Ven.  1609. 

§  "  Ii>  ho  cavato  questo  da  un  rittratto  del  Principe  Veniero,  dipinto  in  ciuell'  habito  die  gli  porte  quando  fu  creato  generale 
della  Republica  Venetiana  nell  ultima  guerra  die  ella  hebbe  con  Selino  Gran  Turco." — C.  Vecellio,  edit.  1590. 

258 


OTHELLO. 

"  The  ordinary  garrison  of  the  island  was  but  2000  Italian  foot,  and  some  thousand  recruits  sent 

from  the  firm  land  with   Martiuenjo,  &c For  cavalry  tliere  were  but  500  Stradiots, 

whicli  were  upon  tlic  pay  of  the  republic."*  Of  the  "  Italian  foot,"  Vecellio  gives  us  a  specimen. 
His  defensive  armour  consists  of  a  back  and  breast-plate,  mail  sleeves,  and  that  peculiar  species  of 
head-piece  called  a  morion. 

A  splendidly  embossed  Italian  morion  of  this  period  is  engraved  here  from  the  original  in  the 
armoury  at  Goodrich  Court,  and  the  figures  upon  it  are  additional  authorities  for  the  military  cos- 
tume of  the  time. 

The  Stradiots  (Estradiots,  or  Stratigari),  mentioned  by  Howell,  were  Greek  troops,  first  em- 
ployed by  the  Venetians,  and  afterwards  by  Charles  VIII.  of  France.  Philip  de  Comines  thus 
speaks  of  them  :  "  Estradiots  sont  gens  comme  Genetaires,  vestus  a  pied  et  a  cheval  comme  Turcs, 
sauf  la  teste,  ou  ils  ne  portent  cette  toile  qu'ils  appellent  turban,  et  sont  durs  gens,  et  couchent 
(Jehors  tout  I'an,  et  leurs  chevaux  ;  ils  etoient  tons  Grecs,"  &c. — Liv.  8,  c.  5. 

The  figure  of  one  of  these  picturesque  auxiliaries  is  engraved  at  p.  286  from  Boissard's  '  Habitus 
Variarum  Orbis  Gentium,'  1581.  The  sabre  of  an  Estradiol  is  engraved  in  Skelton's  '  Specimens,' 
from  an  original  at  Goodrich  Court.  "  The  lads  of  Cyprus," — "  the  very  elements  of  that  warlike 
isle," — may  with  great  probability  be  supposed  to  have  belonged  to  their  body  of  Greek  cavalry. 
Vecellio  presents  us  with  the  costiune  of  a  "  soldato  disarmato,"  which  would  be  that  of  Cassio  and 
lago  when  off  guard.  Its  characteristics  are  the  buff  jerkin  and  the  scarf  of  company.  To  the  first 
it  is  that  Cassio  alludes  when  he  says — 

"  TTiat  thrust  had  been  my  enemy  indeed, 
But  that  my  coat  is  better  than  thou  tliink'st ; 
I  will  make  proof  of  thine" — 

and  not  to  any  "  secret  armour."  The  second  was  the  only  uniform  then  known  amongst  officers, 
who  wore  a  silken  scarf  of  the  colours  of  the  captain  under  whom  they  served,f  the  origin  of  the 
modern  sash.    This  figure  is  engraved  below. 

Plate  90  of  Skelton's  '  Specimens  of  the  Armoiu:  at  Goodrich  Court'  contains  four  varieties  of 
Venetian  halberds  ;  and  plate  85  of  the  same  work  presents  us  with  the  blade  of  a  very  beautiful 
glaive  carried  by  the  guards  of  the  doge,  1556.    (See  p.  321.) 

*  Howell's  Survey  of  the  Signoiy  of  Venice. — London,  1651. 

t  ■■  A  tra verso  del  petto  una  banda  di  ormesiuo  di  diversa  colori,  'secondo  la  divisa  del  suo  capit;ino." — C.  ViceUio,  edit. 
1590.     In  u  later  edition,  1598,  the  hat  is  said  to  have  been  usually  white — "la  maggior  parte  di  color  argentine." 


[Soldier  off  Guard.     Vecellio— Habiti  Antichi 


259 


[Court  of  the  Ducal  Palace,  Venice.] 


ACT    I. 


SCENE  I.— Venice.     A  Street. 

Enter  Roderigo  and  Iago. 

Rod.  Never  tell  me,  I  take  it  much  unkindly* 
That  thou,  Iago,  who  hast  had  my  purse 
As  if  the  strings  were  thine,  should'st  know  of 
this. 
Iago.  But  you'll  not  hear  me.     If  ever  I  did 
dream 
Of  such  a  matter,  abhor  me.  ^ 


"  The  differences  of  the  readings  of  the  folio  of  1623,  which 
we  adopt,  with  few  exceptions,  as  our  text,  and  those  of  tlie 
quarto  of  1622,  which  is  the  basis  of  every  other  modem 
text,  are  so  numerous,  that  it  would  be  out  of  our  power, 
without  crowding  our  pages  beyond  all  reasonable  limits, 
to  indicate  every  slight  variation.  The  move  importaut  we 
shall  of  course  point  o\it ;  and  the  reader  may  rely  that  we 
have  followed  the  folio  iu  all  minute  deviations  from  the 
common  text.  The  line  to  which  this  note  belongs  is  an 
example  of  one,  out  of  many,  of  these  slight  changes.  It  is 
ordinarily  written, — 

"  Tush,  never  tell  me,  I  take  it  much  unkindly." — 
The  folio  omits  tush.    Was  this  accidental  ?     We  think  not. 
The  reading, — 

"  Never  tell  me,  I  take  it  much  unkindly," — 
is  somewhat  more  iu  Koderigo's  vein. 
^  Steevens  writes  these  lines  thus  ; — 


TRAOtUIES. — Vol,.    I. 


2  L 


Rod.  Tliou  told'st  me,  thou  didst  hold  him  in 
thy  hate. 

"  'Sblood,  but  you  will  not  hear  me; 
If  ever  I  did  dream  of  such  a  matter. 
Abhor  me." 
Steevens  adds,  "  The  folio  suppresses  this  oath  'shlund;"  but 
he  does  not  tell  us  what  tlie  folio  does  besides.  It  accom- 
modates the  rhythmical  arrangement  of  the  sentence  to  the 
suppression  of  the  oath,  giving  the  lines  as  we  print  them. 
This  is  certainly  not  the  work  of  some  botcher  coming  after 
the  author.  Such  instances  of  right  feeiiug  aiid  good' taste, 
in  the  omission  of  offensive  expressions,  constantly  occur 
tliroughout  this  play,  in  the  folio  edition.  In  tlie  quarto 
such  offensive  exiuessions  are  as  constantly  found.  Tiie 
modern  editions  cling  to  the  quarto  in  this  particular,  upon 
the  supposition  that  in  the  fcdio  the  passages  were  struck  out 
of  the  copy  by  the  Master  of  the  Revels.  The  Master  of  the 
Revels  must  ha^e  been  an  exceedingly  caiiricious  person  if 
he  thus  exercised  his  office  in  1623,  (tiie  dale  of  the  folio.) 
and  thus  neglected  it  in  1622  (the  date  of  the  quarto).  We 
have  not  a  doubt,  seeing  that  the  structure  of  the  verse  is 
always  accommodated  to  the  alieratiou,  that  every  such 
ehanse  was  made  by  the  author  of  the  play.  It  was  nut  that 
the  Master  of  the  Revels  was  scrupulous  in  the  use  of  his 
authority  with  the  folio,  and  negligent  witli  the  quarto,  but 
that  botli  the  quarto  and  the  folio  were  printed  at  a  period 
when  tlie  statute  of  1604,  for  restraining  the  profane  use  of 
the  sacred  name  in  stage-plays,  had  fallen  into  neglect.  But 
the  quarto  was  printed  from  au  early  copy  of  the  play,  which 
existed  before  the  statute  came  into  operation.  The  folio 
contains  the  author's  additions  and  corrections.  This  would 
be  a  sufficient  reason,  we  think,  if  there  were  no  other 
reason,  for  preferring  the  text  of  the  folio  iu  this  ;is  well  as 
in  other  matters. 

261 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  I. 


lago.  Despise  me,  if  I  do  not.     Three  great 
ones  of  the  city, 
In  personal  suit  to  make  me  his  lieutenant, 
OfF-capp'd*  to  him  :  and,  by  the  faith  of  man, 
I  know  my  price,  I  am  worth  no  worse  a  place : 
But  he,  as  loving  his  own  pride  and  purposes, 
Evades  them ;  with  a  bombast  circumstance. 
Horribly  stufF'd  with  epithets  of  war, 
Nonsuits  my  mediators.    For,  certes,  says  he, 
I  have  already  chose  my  officer. '' 
And  what  was  he  ? 
Forsooth,  a  great  arithmetician. 
One  Michael  Cassio,  a  Florentine,  = 

'  OJf-capp'd.  So  the  folio;  the  quarto,  oft  capp'd.  Tlie 
reading  of  the  q\iarto  has  been  adopted  by  all  the  editors, 
and  is  used  as  an  example  of  the  antiquity  of  tlie  academical 
phrase  to-cnp,  meaning  to  take  off  the  cap.  We  admit  that 
the  word  cap  is  used  in  this  sense  by  other  early  English 
aiitliors;  we  have  it  in  '  Drant's  Horace,'  1567.  But,  we 
would  ask,  is  oft  capp'd  supported  by  the  context?  As  we 
read  the  whole  passage,  three  great  ones  of  the  city  wait  upon 
Othello;  they  qff'-cnpji'd — they  took  cap-in-hand — in  personal 
suit  that  he  shlmld  make  lago  his  lieutenant;  but  he  evades 
them,  &c.  He  has  already  chosen  his  officer.  Here  is  a 
scene  painted  in  a  manner  well  befitting  both  the  dignity  of 
the  great  ones  of  tlie  city  and  of  Othello  himself.  Tlie 
audience  was  given,  the  solicitation  was  humbly  made,  the 
reasons  for  refusing  it  courteously  assigned.  But  take  tlie 
other  reading,  oft  capp'd ;  and  then  we  have  Othello  per- 
petually haunted  by  the  three  great  ones  of  the  city,  capping 
to  him  and  repeating  to  him  the  same  prayer,  and  he  per- 
petually denying  them  with  the  same  bombast  circumstance. 
Surely  "this  is  not  what  ShaUspere  meant  to  represent. 

••  These  lines,  following  the  quarto,  are  ordinarily  printed 
thus : — 

"  But  he,  as  loving  his  own  pride  and  purposes, 
Evides  them,  with  a  bombast  circumstance. 
Horribly  stulfd  with  epithets  of  war; 
^nd  in  conclusion,  nonsuits 
My  mediators  ;  for,  certes,  says  he, 
I  have  already  chose  my  oflScer." 

Circumstance  is  circumlocution.  The  passage,  as  it  appears 
to  us,  has  been  entirely  mistaken.  lago  does  not  mean  to 
say  that  Othello  made  a  long  rigmarole  speech  to  the  three 
great  ones,  and  then  in  conclusion  nonsuited  the  mediators 
by  telling  them  he  had  already  chosen  his  officer.  But,  in 
the  spirit  of  calumny,  he  imputes  to  Othello  that,  having 
chosen  his  oflicer  before  the  personal  suit  was  made  to  him  for 
lago.  he  suppressed  the  fact;  evaded  the  mediators;  and 
nonsuited  them  with  a  bombast  circumstance.  We  follow  tlie 
punctuation  of  the  folio,  which  distinctly  separates,  /ijr,  certes, 
says  he,  from  nonsuits  my  mediators.  Othello,  according  to 
lago's  calumnious  asserllon,  says  the  truth  only  to  himself. 

"  A  Florentine.  "It  appears."  says  Hanmer,  "from 
many  passages  of  this  play,  rightly  understood,  that  Cassio 
was  a  Florentine,  and  lago  a  Venetian."  We  may  as  well 
dispose  of  this  question  at  once,  to  avoid  the  repetition  in  sub- 
sequent notes.  lago  here  calls  Cassio  a  Florentine.  But 
there  are  some  who  maintain  that  Cassio  was  not  therefore 
a  Florentine.  It  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  lago,  throughout 
the  whole  course  of  his  extra(U-(llnary  character,  is  repre- 
sented as  utterly  regardless  of  the  differences  bi'tween  truth 
and  falsehood.  The  most  absolute  lie, — the  half  lie, — the 
truth  In  the  way  of  telling  it  distorted  into  a  lie,  are  the  instru- 
ments with  which  lago  constantly  works.  This  ought  to  be 
borne  in  mind  with  reference  to  his  assertion  that  Cassio 
was  a  Florentine.  But  in  the  second  act  we  find,  in  the  mo- 
dern editions,  the  following  lines  spoken  by  a  gentleman  of 
Cyprus  : — 

"  The  ship  is  here  put  in. 
A  Veronese  ;  Michael  Cassio, 
Lieutenant  to  the  warlike  Moor,  Othello, 
Is  come  on  shore." 
Here  the  ship  is  the  Veronese.  But,  although  the  text  looks 
plausible,  the  editors  stumble  at  it  because  Verona  is  an  in- 
land citi/.      They  settle   it,  however,  in  the  usual  way,  by 
saying  that  Shakspere  knew  nothing  of  the  topography  of 

262 


A  fellow  almost  damn'd  in  a  fair  wife, 

That  never  set  a  squadron  in  the  field. 

Nor  the  division  of  a  battle  knows 

More    than   a   spinster ;     unless    the   bookish 

theorick, 
Wherein  the  tongued*  consuls  can  propose 
As  masterly  as  he  :  mere  prattle,  without  practice. 
Is   all  his  soldiership.      But   he,  sir,  had  the 

election  : 
And  I, — of  whom  his  eyes  had  seen  the  proof 
At  Rhodes,  at  Cyprus,  and  on  other  grounds 
Christen'd''  and  heathen, — must  be  be-lee'd  and 

calm'd' 
By  debitor  and  creditor  :  this  counter-caster. 
He,  in  good  time,  must  his  lieutenant  be. 
And  I, — bless  the  mark !  his  Moor-ship's   an- 
cient. 
Rod.  By  heaven,  I  rather  would  have  been 

his  hangman. 
lago.  Why,  there's  no  remed}^,  'tis  the  curse 

of  service ; 
Preferment  goes  by  letter  and  affection, 
And  not  by  old  gradation,  where  each  second 
Stood  heir  to  the  first.      Now,   sir,   be  judge 

yourself, 

Italy.  But  (he  original  quarto  and  folio  each  agree  in  the 
punctuation  of  the  passage: 

"  The  ship  is  here  put  in 
A  Veronessa,  Michael  Cassio, 
Lieutenimt  to  the  warlike  Moor,  Othello, 
Is  come  ashore." 

Here  Cassio  is  the  Veronese.  But  we  retain  the  word  Ve- 
ronessa, because  we  apprehend  that  it  must  be  taken  as  a 
feminine,  and  as  such  applicable  to  the  ship,  and  we  alter  the 
punctuation  accordingly.'  The  city  of  Verona,  subject  to 
Venice,  might  furnish  ships  to  the  Republic.  In  the  third 
act  Cassio,  when  lago  is  proffering  his  services  to  him,  says, 

"  I  humbly  thank  you  for  't.  I  never  knew 
A  Florentine  more  kind  and  honest." 
One  meaning  of  his  words  is,  that  lago  being  a  Florentine, 
Cassio  never  knew  one  of  that  country  more  kind  and 
honest.  The  other  meaning  is,  that  Cassio  never  knew  even 
a  Florentine,  even  one  of  his  own  countrymen,  more  kind 
and  honest.  This  Is  Malone's  interprefeition;  and  "lago," 
he  adds,  "is  a  Venetian,"  because  he  says,  speaking  of  Des- 
demona, 

"  I  know  our  country  disposition  well;" 

and  again,  calls  Roderigo,  of  Venice,  his  countryman.  These 
assertions,  be  it  again  observed,  rest  upon  the  authority  of 
lago,  the  liar.  We  do  not,  however,  think  that  It  Is  proved, 
as  Tieck  maintains,  that  lago  Is  the  Florentine,  and  Cassio 
the  Veronese;  but  we  distinctly  agree  with  him  that  lago 
meant  to  speak  disparagingly  of  Cassio  when  lie  called 
him  a  Florentine.  He  was  an  "  arithmetician,"  a  "  counter- 
caster,"  a  native  of  a  state  whose  Inhabitants,  pursuing 
the  peaceful  and  g.ainful  occupations  of  commerce,  had  armies 
of  mercenaries.  Cassio,  for  this  reason,  upon  the  showing  of 
lago,  was  one  "that  never  set  a  squadron  in  the  field."  Ac- 
cording to  Tieck,  this  imputation  of  being  a  Florentine 
must  solve  the  enigma  of  the  next  line — 

"  A  fellow  almost  damn'd  in  a  fair  wife." 
But  we  are  of  opinion  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  find  any 
mystical  meaning  in  these  words ;  and  that  lago  distinctly 
refers  to  Bianca. 

«  Tungued.     So  the  folio.     The  quarto  gives  us  toged. 

^  Christen'd.     In  the  quarto  C/in'sfmn. 

"  Be-lee'd  and  calm'd.     lago  uses  terms  of  navigation  to 
express  that  Cassio  had  out-sail'd  him. 


Aux  I.J 


OTHELLO. 


[SCSMK    1, 


Whether  I  in  any  just  term  am  afRn'd 
To  love  the  Moor. 

Rod.  I  would  not  follow  him  then. 

lago.  O  sir,  content  you ; 
I  follow  him  to  serve  my  turn  ujion  him  : 
We  cannot  all  be  masters,  nor  all  masters 
Cannot  be  truly  follow'd.     You  shall  mark 
Many  a  duteous  and  knee-crooking  knave, 
That,  doting  on  his  own  obsequious  bondage. 
Wears  out  his  time,  much  like  his  master's  ass, 
For  nought  but  provender;  and  when  he's  old, 

cashier'd; 
Whip  me  such  honest  knaves  :  Others  there  are 
Who,  trimm'd  in  forms  and  visages  of  duty, 
Keep  yet  their  hearts  attending  on  themselves  ; 
And,  throwing  but  shows  of  service  on  their  lords. 
Do  Avell  thrive  by  them,  and,  when  they  have 

lin'd  their  coats. 
Do   themselves  homage :     these   fellows   have 

some  soul ; 
And  such  a  one  do  I  profess  myself.     For,  sir, 
It  is  as  sure  as  you  are  Roderigo, 
Were  I  the  Moor  I  would  not  be  lago. 
In-following  him  I  follow  but  myself; 
Heaven  is  my  judge,  not  I  for  love  and  duty. 
But  seeming  so,  for  my  pecidiar  end : 
For  when  my  outward  action  doth  demonstrate 
The  native  act  and  figvire  of  my  heart 
In  complement  extern,*  'tis  not  long  after 
But  I  will  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve 
For  daws  to  peck  at :  I  am  not  what  I  am. 
Rod.  What  a  fall  Fortune  does  the  Thick- 
lips  '  owe, 
If  he  can  carry  't  thus  ! '' 

lago.  Call  up  her  father. 

Rouse  him  :  make  after  him,  poison  his  delight. 
Proclaim  him  in  the  streets ;  incense  her  kinsmen. 
And  though  he  in  a  fertile  climate  dwell, 
Plague  him  with  flies  :  though  that  his  joy  be  joy, 

■  In  complement  extern.  Johnson  interprets  this — "  In 
that  wliich  I  do  only  for  an  outward  show  of  civility." 
Surely  this  interpretation,  by  adopting  the  secondary  mean- 
ing of  complement  (compliment),  destroys  lago's  bold 
avowal,  which  is,  that  when  his  actions  exhibit  the  real 
intentions  and  motives  of  his  heart,  in  outward  completeness, 
he  might  as  well  wear  it  upon  his  sleeve. 

*•  This  is  ordinarily  printed,  following  the  quarto, — 
"  What  a.  full  fortune  does  the  thick-lips  owe." 
This  is^  simply,  how  fortunate  he  is.  The  reading  of  the 
folio,  which  we  adopt,  conveys  a  much  more  Shaksperiau 
idea.  If  the  Moor  can  carry  it  thus — appoint  his  own  officer, 
in  spite  of  the  great  ones  of  the  city  who  capp'd  to  him,  and, 
moreover,  can  secure  Desdemona  as  his  prize, — he  is  so 
pufTd  up  with  his  own  pride  and  purposes,  and  is  so  suc- 
cessful, that  fortune  owes  him  a  heavy  fall.  To  owe  is  used 
by  Shakspere  not  only  in  the  ancient  sense  of  to  own,  to 
possess,  but  in  the  modern  sense  of  to  be  indebted  to,  to 
hold  or  possess  for  another.  Fortune  here  ewes  the  thick- 
lips  a  fall,  in  the  same  way  that  we  say,  "  He  owes  him 
a  good  or  an  evil  turn."  The  reading  which  we  adopt  is 
very  much  in  Shakspere's  manner  of  throwing  out  a  hint  of 
coming  calamities.  The  commentators  do  not  even  notice 
this  reading. 


Yet  throw  such  chances"  of  vexation  on't, 
As  it  may  lose  some  colour. 

Rod.  Here  is  her  father's  house;   I'll   call 

aloud. 
lago.  Do;    with  like   timorous   accent,    and 
dire  yell, 
As  when  (by  night  and  negligence'')  the  fire 
Is  spied  in  populous  cities. 

Rod.  What,  hoa !    Brabantio !   signior   Bra- 

bantio,  hoa ! 
lago.  Awake;  what,  hoa!  Brabantio!  thieves  i 
thieves! 
Look  to  your  house,  your  daughter,  and  your 

bags ! 
Thieves!  thieves! 

Brabantio,  above. 

Bra.  What  is  the  reason  of  this  terrible  sum- 
mons ? 
What  is  the  matter  there  ? 

Rod.  Signior,  is  all  your  family  within  ? 

lago.  Are  your  doors  lock'd  ? 

Bra.  Why?  wherefore  ask  you  this? 

lago.  Sir,  you  are  robb'd;  for  shame <=  put  on 
your  gown ; 
Your  heart  is  bm-st,  you  have  lost  half  your  soul; 
Even  now,  now,  very  now,  an  old  black  ram 
Is  tupping  your  white  ewe.     Arise,  arise  ; 
Awake  the  snorting  citizens  with  the  bell, 
Or  else  the  devil  will  make  a  grandsire  of  you : 
Arise,  I  say. 

Bra.  What,  have  you  lost  your  wits  ? 

Rod.  Most  reverend  signior,  do  you  know  my 
voice? 

Bra.  Not  I ;  what  are  you  ? 

Rod.  My  name  is  Roderigo. 

Bra.  The  worser  welcome : 

I  have   charg'd  thee  not  to  haunt  about  my 

doors : 
In  honest  plainness  thou  hast  heard  me  say 
My  daughter  is  not  for  thee ;  and  now,  in  mad- 
ness, 
(Beingfullof  supper  and  distempering  draughts,) 
Upon  malicious  knavery,  ^  dost  thou  come 
To  start  my  quiet.^ 

Rod.  Sir,  sir,  sir, — 

Bra.  But  thou  must  needs  be  sure, 


'  Chances.  The  quarto  reads  changes,  which  al  lia\e 
adopted.  When  Roderigo  suggests  that  fortune  owes  Otlielld 
a  fall,  lago  eagerly  jumps  at  the  chances  of  vexation,  which 
the  alarm  of  Desdemona's  father  may  bring  upon  him. 

•^  We  adopt  the  parentlietical  punctuation  of  the  folio, 
which,  if  it  had  been  followed,  might  have  saved  the  dis- 
cussion as  to  Shakspere's  carelessness  in  making  the  fire 
spied  "  by  night  and  negligence." 

"  Forshame.  This  is  not  used  as  a  reproach,  but  means  — 
for  decency  put  on  your  gown. 

*  Knavery.    The  quarto  bravery, 

263 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNE  I. 


My  spirit  and  my  place  have  in  their  power 
To  make  this  bitter  to  thee. 

Bod.  Patience,  good  sir. 

Bra.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  robbing?  this  is 
Venice; 
My  house  is  not  a  grange. " 

Bod.  Most  grave  Brabantio, 

In  simple  and  pure  soul  I  come  to  you. 

lago.  Sir,  you  are  one  of  those  that  will  not 
serve  God,  if  the  devil  bid  you.  Because  we 
come  to  do  you  service,  and  you  think  we  are 
ruffians,  you'll  have  your  daughter  covered  with 
a  Barbary  horse:  you'll  have  your  nephews'" 
neigh  to  you:  you'll  have  coursers  for  cousins, 
and  gennets  for  germans. 

Bra.  What  profane  wretch  art  thou? 

lago.  I  am  one,  sir,  that  comes  to  tell  you 
your  daughter  and  the  Moor  are  making  the 
beast  with  two  backs. 

Bra.  Thou  art  a  villain. 

Jago.  You  are  a  senator. 

Bra.  This  thou  shalt  answer.     I  know  thee, 
Roderigo. 

Rod.  Sir,  I   will  answer  any  thing.     But  I 
beseech  you. 
If  't  be  your  pleasure  and  most  wise  consent, 
(As  partly  I  find  it  is,)  that  yoiu-  fair  daughter, 
At  this  odd-even  and  dull  watch  o'  the  night,  "^ 
Transported  with  no  worse  nor  better  guard, 
But  with  a  knave  of  common  hire,  a  gondolier,^ 
To  the  gross  clasps  of  a  lascivious  Moor : 
If  this  be  known  to  you,  and  your  allowance, 
We  then  have  done  you  bold  and  saucy  wrongs; 
But  if  you  know  not  this,  my  manners  tell  me 

"  Grange.  Strictly  sjiealiing,  the  fiirm-house  of  a  monastery. 
But  it  is  used  by  the  old  writers  as  a  separate  dwelling,  as  in 
Spenser: — 

"  Ne  have  the  watery  fowls  a  certain  grange 
Wlierein  to  rest." 
Shakspere,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  gives  the  feeling  of 
loneliness  (which  Brabantio  here  expresses)  in  a  few  words : — 
"  At  the  moated  grange  resides  this  dejected  Mariana."  Mr. 
Tennyson,  in  his  exquisite  poem  upon  that  theme,  gives  us  the 
idea  of  desolation  more  fully : — 

'•  With  blackest  moss  the  flowerpots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all. 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  s.id  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch. 
Weeded  and  worn  tlie  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange." 
fc  Nephews.    The  word  was  formerly   used  to  signify  a 
grandson,  or  any  lineal  descendant.     In  Richard  III.  (Act 
IV.  ,Scenei.)  the  Duchess  of  York  calls  her  grand-daughter, 
niece.    Nephew  here  is  the  Latin  nepos. 

"  The  seventeen  lines  beginning,  "  If  't  be  your  pleasure," 
are  not  found  in  the  quarto  of  1622.  We  cannot,  therelbre, 
consult  that  quarto  here,  as  in  other  instances,  when  a  doubt- 
ful reading  occurs.  We  have  two  difficulties  here.  First, 
what  is  the  odd-even  of  the  night  ?  It  is  explained  to  be  the 
interval  between  twelve  at  night  and  one  in  the  morning. 
But  then,  secondly,  an  auxiliary  verb  is  wanting  to  the  proper 
construction  of  the  sentence ;  and  Capell  would  read,  "he 
transported."     We  can  only  give  the  passage  as  we  find  it. 

264 


We  have  your  wrong  rebuke.     Do  not  believe 
That,  from  the  sense  of  all  civility, 
I  thus  would  play  and  trifle  with  your  reverence : 
Your  daughter, — if  you   have   not   given   her 

leave, — 
I  say  again,  hath  made  a  gross  revolt; 
Tying  her  duty,  beauty,  wit,  and  fortunes, 
In  an  extravagant'  and  wheeling  stranger, 
Of  here  and  every  where :  Straight  satisfy  your- 
self: 
If  she  be  in  her  chamber,  or  your  house, 
Let  loose  on  me  the  justice  of  the  state 
For  thus  deluding  you. 

Bra.  Strike  on  the  tinder,  hoa ! 

Give  me  a  taper ;  call  up  all  my  people  : 
This  accident  is  not  unlike  my  dream; 
Belief  of  it  oppresses  me  already: 
Light,  I  say!  light!  \_Exitfrom  ahoiie. 

lago.  Farewell ;  for  I  must  leave  you : 

It  seems  not  meet,  nor  wholesome  to  my  place, 
To  be  produc'd  (as,  if  I  stay,  I  shall) 
Against  the  Moor :  For,  I  do  know,  the  state, 
(However  this  may  gall  him  with  some  check,) 
Cannot  with  safety  cast  him.    For  he's  embark'd 
With  such  loud  reason  to  the  Cyprus'  wars, 
(Which  even  now  stand  in  act,)  that  for  their 

souls, 
Another  of  his  fathom  they  have  none 
To  lead  their  business :  in  which  regard, 
Though  I  do  hate  him  as  I  do  hell  pains, 
Yet,  for  necessity  of  present  life, 
I  must  show  out  a  flag  and  sign  of  love, 
Which  is  indeed  but  sign.    That  you  shall  surely 

find  him. 
Lead  to  the  Sagittary**  the  raised  search; 
And  there  will  I  be  with  him.     So,  farewell. 

[^Exit. 

Enter,  below,  Brabantio,  and  Servants  with 
torches. 

Bra.  It  is  too  true  an  evil:  gone  she  is. 
And  what's  to  come  of  my  despised  time 
Is  nought  but  bitterness.     Now,  Roderigo, 
Where  did'st  thou  see  her?— O,  imhappy  girl! — 
With  the  Moor,  say'st  thou? — Who  would  be  a 

father?— 
How  did'st  thou  know  'twas  she? — O,  she  de- 
ceives me'^ 


'  Extravagant.  Wandering,  unsettled,  as  in  Hamlet: — 
"  The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit."        ^ 

^  The  Sagittary.  Tliis  is  generally  taken  to  be  an  inn.  It 
was  the  residence  at  the  arsenal  of  the  commanding  officers 
of  the  navy  and  army  of  the  republic.  The  figure  of  an 
archer,  with  his  drawn  bow,  over  the  gates,  still  indicates  the 
place.     Probably  Shakspere  had  looked  upon  that  sculpture. 

'  The  quarto  reads,  "  Thuu  deceiv'st  me." 


A(!T    I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  II. 


Past   thoiight! — What  said  she   to  you? — Get 

more  tapers; 
Raise  all  my  kindred. — Are  they  married,  think 
you? 
Rod.  Truly,  I  think  they  are. 
Bra.  O heaven! — How  got  she  out? — O  trea- 
son of  the  blood ! — 
Fathers,  from  hence  trust  not  your  daughters' 

minds 
By   what  you  see   them   act. — Are   there   not 

charms 
By  which  the  property  of  youth  and  maidhood 
May  be  abus'd?     Have  you  not  read,  Roderigo, 
Of  some  such  thing? 

Rod.  Yes,  sir;   I  have  indeed. 

Bra.  Call  up  my  brother. — O,  would  you  had 
had  her  I — 
Some  one  way,  some  another. — Do  you  know 
Where  we  may  apprehend  her  and  the  Moor? 

Rod.  I  think  I  can  discover  him,  if  you  please 
To  get  good  guard,  and  go  along  with  me. 
Bra.  Pray  yoii,  lead  on.     At  every  house  I'll 
call; 
I  may  command  at  most; — Get  weapons,  hoa! 
And  raise  some  special  officers  of  night." — 
On,  good  Roderigo.     I  will  deserve  your  pains. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same.     Another  Street. 

Enter  Othello,  Iago,  and  Attendants  with 
torches. 

Iago.  Though  in  the  trade  of  war  I  have  slain 
men, 
Yet  do  I  hold  it  very  stuif*  o'  the  conscience, 
To  do  no  contriv'd  murder :  I  lack  iniquity 
Sometime  to  do  me  service:  Nine  or  ten  times 
I  had  thought  to  have  yerk'd  him  here  under 
the  ribs.<= 

0th.  'Tis  better  as  it  is. 

Jago.  Nay,  but  he  prated. 

And  spoke  such  scurvy  and  provoking  terms 
Against  your  honour. 
That,  with  the  little  godliness  I  have. 


*  Officers  tif  night.  So  the  qiiavto.  Tlie  folio  reads  officers 
of  might.  Mnloue  has  given  a  quotiition  from  the  C'ommon- 
wealtli  of  Venice,  a  translation  I'rom  the  Italian,  printed  in 
1599,  from  which  it  appears  tliat,  the  city  being  divideil  into 
six  tribes,  each  tribe  firnished  an  officer  of  Hie  night,  "  To 
make  rounds  about  his  quarter,  till  the  dawning  of  the  day, 
being  always  guarded  and  attended  on  with  weapoiied 
officers  and  Serjeants." 

•>  Stuff.  Matter— material.  The  stuff  of  the  conscience 
is  the  very  substance  of  the  conscience. 

■=  Iago  is  preparing  Othello  for  the  appearance  of  Roderigo 
with  Brabantio,  which  lie  does  by  representing  lliat  Roderigo 
has  communicated  to  liim  his  intention  to  apprise  Desde- 
niona's  father  of  her  flight,  and  that  lie  resented  liis  ex- 
pressions towards  Otliello. 


I  did  full  hard  forbear  him.  But,  I  pray  you,  sir, 
Are  you  fast  married?  Be  assur'd  of  this," 
That  the  magnifico  is  much  belov'd. 
And  hath,  in  his  effect,  a  voice  potential. 
As  double  as  the  duke's:''  he  will  divorce  you; 
Or  put  upon  you  what  restraint  and  grievance 
The  law  (with  all  his  might  to  enforce  it  on) 
Will  give  him  cable. 

0th.  Let  him  do  his  spite : 

My  services,  which  I  have  done  the  signiory. 
Shall   out-tongue   his  complaints.     'Tis  yet  to 

know, 
(Which,  when  I  know  that  boasting  is  an  ho- 
nour 
I  shall  promulgate,)  I  fetch  my  life  and  being 
From  men  of  royal  siege ;  ■=  and  my  demerits 
May  speak,  unbonneted,''  to  as  proud  a  fortune 
As  this  that  I  have  reach'd:  For  know,  Iago, 
But  that  I  love  the  gentle  Desdemona, 
I  would  not  my  unhoused  •=  free  condition 
Put  into  circumscription  and  confine 
For  the  sea's  worth.^    But,  look!  what  lights 
come  yond? 

Enter  Cassio,  at  a  distance,  and  certain  Officers 
with  torches. 

Iago.  Those   are   the  raised  father   and  his 
friends  : 
You  were  best  go  in. 

0th.  Not  I :  I  must  be  found  ; 


•  The  quarto  reads— /or  he  sure  of  this. 

•>  As  dijuhle  as  the  duhe's.  Most  of  the  editors  give  this  a 
literal  construction,  supposing  that  Sliakspere  adopted  the 
popular  though  incorrect  notion,  that  the  doge  had  two 
voices  in  the  senate.  Capell  calls  as  double  a  Greecism,  sig- 
nifying as  targe,  as  extensive.  It  is  clear  tliatShakspere  did 
not  take  the  pluMse  in  a  literal  sense  ;  for,  if  he  had  supposed 
that  the  duke  had  a  double  voice  as  duke,  he  would  not  have 
assigned  the  same  privilege  to  the  senator  Brabantio. 

'  Siege.    Tli((  quarto  reads  height.     A  siege  royal  was  a 
throne,  an  elevated  scat.     We  have  in  Spenser, — 
"  A  stately  siege  of  sovereign  majesty." 

*  Vnhnnneted.  Theobald  says,  to  speak  nnbonneted  is 
to  speak  with  the  cap  ofi',  which  is  directly  opposed  to  the 
poet's  meaning.  Mr.  Fuscli  suggested  an  ingrnioiis  explana- 
tion, that  as  at  Venice  the  e.ip  or  bonnet  constituted  an 
important  distinction,  so  the  denierilsof  Otliello  might  speak 
for  themselves  without  any  extrinsic  honours.  Demerits  is 
used  in  the  sense  u\' merits;  mcreo  and  ilemcreii  being  synony- 
mous in  Latin.     We  have  the  same  word  in  Coriolanus  : — 

"  Opinion,  that  so  sticks  on  Martins,  may 
Of  his  demerits  rob  Coniinius." 
^  Johnson   explains  unhoused — free   from   domestic  cares. 
Wli.illey  says  that  Oihello,  talking  as  a  soldier,  means  that 
he  lias  no  settled  haliitation.     Mr.  Hunter  (Discjuisition  on 
the  Tempestj  points  out  that  Sliakspere"  Itiilianates"  in  the 
use  of  the  word  un/umsed,  which,  he  adds,  "  to  an  English  ear 
suggests  nothing  that  a  man  would  not  willingl\  resign ;  but 
it  would  be  difl'erent  with  an  Italian."     It  appears  to  us  that 
Othello  had  expressed  no  satisfaction  at  having  been  house- 
less, but  that  he  simply  uses  unhon.ted  for  unmarried.    The 
/iKsinnd  is  the  head  or  band  of  the  liouse — the  unmarried  is 
the  unhoiisi  -bunded — the  unhoused. 
f  So  in  Henry  V.,  Act  i..  Scene  ii., 

"  As  rich  with  praise 
As  is  the  ooze  and  bottom  of  the  sea 
With  sunken  wreck  and  sumless  treasuries." 

265 


Act  iO 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  II. 


My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul. 
Shall  manifest  me  rightly.     Is  it  they  ? 

lago.  By  Janus,  I  think  no. 

0th.  The  servants  of  the  duke  ;  and  my  lieu- 
tenant. 
The  goodness  of  the  night  upon  you,  friends ! 
What  is  the  news  ? 

Cas.  The  duke  does  greet  you,  general ; 

And  he  requires  your  haste -post-haste  appear- 
ance, 
Even  on  the  instant. 

Otli.  What  is  the  matter,  think  you  ? 

Cas.  Something  from  Cyprvis,  as  I  may  divine  : 
It  is  a  business  of  some  heat.     The  galleys 
Have  sent  a  dozen  sequent  messengers 
This  very  night,  at  one  another's  heels  ; 
And  many  of  the  consuls,*  rais'd  and  met, 
Are  at  the  duke's  ah'eady  :  You  have  been  hotly 

call'd  for ; 
When,  being  not  at  your  lodging  to  be  found. 
The  senate  hath  sent  about  three  several  quests, 
To  search  you  out. 

0th.  'Tis  well  I  am  found  by  you. 

I  will  but  spend  a  word  here  in  the  house. 
And  go  with  you.  [Exit. 

Cas.  Ancient,  what  makes  he  here  ? 

logo.  'Faith,  he  to-night  hath  boarded  a  land 
carack  f** 
If  it  prove  lawful  prize  he's  made  for  ever. 

Cas.  I  do  not  understand. 

lago.  He's  married. 

Cas.  To  who  ? 

Re-enter  Othello. 

lago.  Marry,  to — Come,  captain,  will  you  go? 
0th.  Have  with  you. 

Cas.  Hei'e  comes  another  troop  to  seek  for  you. 

Enter  Brabantio,  Roderigo,  and  Officers  with 
torches. 

lago.  It  is  Brabantio  : — general,  be  advis'd ; 
He  comes  to  bad  intent. 

0th.  Hola  !  stand  there  ! 

Rod.  Signior,  it  is  the  Moor. 
Bra.  Down  with  him,  thief! 

\_They  draw  on  both  sides, 
lago.  You,   Roderigo !     Come,  sir,  I  am  for 

you. 
0th.    Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the 
dew  will  rust  them. 
Good  signior,  you    shall    more   command  with 
years 

•  Consuls.    In  the  first  scene  we  have  "  the  tongued  con- 
suls;" doubtless  tlie  senators  are  meant  in  both  passages. 
^  Carach.    A  vessel  of  heavy  burden. 

266 


Than  with  your  weapons. 

Bra.  O   thou   foul    thief,    where   hast   thou 
stow'd  my  daughter? 
Damn'd  as  thou  art,  thou  hast  enchanted  her : 
For  I'll  refer  me  to  all  things  of  sense, 
(If  she  in  chains  of  magic  were  not  bound,*) 
Whether  a  maid  so  tender,  fair,  and  happy, 
So  opposite  to  marriage,  that  she  shunn'd 
The  wealthy  curled  dearling''  of  our  nation, 
Would  ever  have,  to  incur  a  general  mock, 
Run  from  her  guardage  to  the  sooty  bosom 
Of  such  a  thing  as  thou,— to  fear,'=  not  to  delight. 
Judge  me  the  world,  if  'tis  not  gross  in  sense, 
That  thou  hast  practis'd  on  her  with  foul  charms ; 
Abus'd    her    delicate    youth    with    drugs,    or 

minerals, 
That  weaken  motion  :  ^ — I'll  have  it  disputed  on  ; 
'Tis  probable,  and  palpable  to  thinking. 
I  therefoi-e  apprehend  and  do  attach  thee, 
For  an  abuser  of  the  world,  a  practiser 
Of  arts  inhibited  and  out  of  warrant : 
Lay  hold  upon  him  ;  if  he  do  resist. 
Subdue  him  at  his  peril. 

0th,  Hold  your  hands, 

Both  ydu  of  my  inclining,  and  the  rest: 
Were  it  my  cue  to  fight,  I  should  have  known  it 
Without  a  prompter. — Where  will  you  that  I  go 
To  answer  this  your  charge  ? 

B7a.  To  prison  :  till  fit  time 

Of  law,  and  course  of  direct  session. 
Call  thee  to  answer. 

0th.  Whatif  I  doobey? 

How  may  the  duke  be  therewith  satisfied ; 
Whose  messengers  are  here  about  my  side, 
Upon  some  present  business  of  the  state, 
To  bring  me  to  him  ? 

Off.  'Tis  true,  most  worthy  signior, 

The  duke's  in  council ;  and  your  noble  self, 
I  am  sure  is  sent  for. 

Bra.  How  !  the  duke  in  council  ? 

In  this  time  of  the  night? — Bring  him  away  : 
Mine's  not  an  idle  cause  :  the  duke  himself. 
Or  any  of  my  brothers  of  the  state. 
Cannot  but  feel  this  wrong  as  'twere  their  own : 
For  if  such  actions  may  have  passage  free. 
Bond-slaves  and  pagans  shall  our  statesmen  be. 

l^Exetmt. 

'  This  line  is  wanting  in  the  quarto. 

•>  Dearling.  So  in  the  folio,  using  the  old  Saxon  word  dear- 
ling  in  a  plural  sense.     The  quarto  has  darlings. 

'  To  fear.  Brabantio  calls  Othello,  a  tiling  to  terrify,  not 
to  delight. 

•i  So  the  folio.  The  passage  iti  wliich  the  word  weahen 
occurs,  beginning  at  "  Judge  me  the  world,"  and  ending  at 
"  palpalUe  to  tliinking,"  is  not  fouiud  in  the  quarto.  The 
commentators,  therefore,  change  tveahen  to  vmken,  which 
tliey  elucidate  by  three  pages  of  notes,  which  are  neither  sa- 
tisfactory in  a  critical  point  of  view,  nor  edifying  in  a  moral 
one. 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  III. 


SCENE  III.— The  same.    A  Council  Chamber. 

The  Duke,  and  Senators,  sitting ;  Officers 
attending. 

Didce.  There  is  no  composition  in  these  news. 
That  gives  them  credit. 

1  Sen.  Indeed,  they  are  disproportion'd ; 
My  letters  saj',  a  hundred  and  seven  galleys. 

Duke.  And  mine,  a  hundred  forty. 

2  Sen.  And  mine,  two  hundred  : 
But  though  they  jump  not  on  a  just  account, 
(As  in  these  cases  where  the  aim  reports,* 

'Tis  oft  with  difference,)  yet  do  they  all  confirm 
A  Turkish  fleet,  and  bearing  up  to  Cyprus. 
Duke.  Nay,    it  is  possible   enough  to  judg- 
ment : 
I  do  not  so  secure  me  in  the  error. 
But  the  main  article  I  do  approve 
In  fearful  sense. 

Sailor.    [  JVithin.'j    What    hoa !    what   hoa ! 
what  hoa  ! 

Enter  Sailor. 

Off.  A  messenger  from  the  gallej's. 

Duke.  Now?  the  business? 

Sail.  The    Turkish    preparation    makes    for 
Rhodes  ;* 
So  was  I  bid  report  here  to  the  state, 
By  signior  Angelo. 

Duke.  How  say  you  by  this  change  ? 

1  Sen.  This  cannot  be. 

By  no  assay  of  reason ;  'tis  a  pageant. 
To  keep  us  in  false  gaze :  When  we  consider 
The  importancy  of  Cypinis  to  the  Turk  ; 
And  let  ourselves  again  but  understand 
That,  as  it  more  concerns  the  Turk  than  Rhodes, 
So  may  he  with  more  facile  question  bear  it. 
For  that  it  stands  not  in  such  warlike  bi'ace. 
But  altogether  lacks  the  abilities 
That  Rhodes  is  dress'd  in  :  if  we  make  thought 

of  this. 
We  must  not  think  the  Turk  is  so  imskilful, 
To  leave  that  latest  which  concerns  him  first. 
Neglecting  an  attempt  of  ease  and  gain. 
To  wake  and  wage  a  danger  profitless.'' 

Duke.  Nay,  in   all   confidence,  he's  not  for 
Rhodes. 

Off.  Here  is  more  news. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  The  Ottomites,  reverend  and  gracious, 

•  The  aim  reports.    Aim  is  used  in  the  sense  of  conjecture, 
as  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Veiona  : — 

"  But  fearing  lest  my  jealous  nim  might  err." 
'  The  preceding  seven  lines  are  only  found  in  the  folio. 


Steering  with   due  course    toward   the   isle   of 

Rhodes, 
Have  there  injointed  them  with  an  after  fleet. 
1  Sen.  Ay,  so   I   thought : — How  many,  as 

you  guess  ? 
Mess.  Of  thirty  sail :  and  now  they  do  re-stem 
Their  backward  course,  bearing  with  frank  ap- 
pearance 
Their  purposes  towards  Cyprus.     Signior  Mon- 

tano. 
Your  trusty  and  most  valiant  servitor. 
With  his  free  duty,  recommends  you  thus, 
And  prays  you  to  believe  him. 

Duke.  'Tis  certain  then  for  Cyprus. 
Marcus  Luccicos,*  is  not  he  in  town  ? 
1  Sen.  He's  now  in  Florence. 
Duke.  Write  from  us  to  him,  post — post-haste, 

despatch.'' 
1  Sen.  Here  comes  Brabantio,  and  the  valiant 
Moor. 

Enter  Brabantio,  Othello,  Iago,  Roderigo, 
and  Officers. 

Duke,  Valiant  Othello,  we  must  straight  em- 
ploy you 
Against  the  general  enemy  Ottoman. 
I  did  not  see  you ;  welcome,  gentle  signior  : 

[To  Brabantio. 
We  lack'd  your  counsel  and  your  help  to-night. 

Bra.  So  did  I  yours  :  Good  your  grace,  par- 
don me ; 
Neither  my  place,  nor  aught  I  heard  of  business. 
Hath   rais'd  me  from  my  bed ;  nor  doth   the 

general  care 
Take  hold  on  me  ;  for  my  particular  grief 
Is  of  so  flood-gate  and  o'erbearing  nature, 
That  it  engluts  and  swallows  other  sorrows, 
And  it  is  still  itself. 

Duke.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Bra.  My  daughter !  O,  my  daughter ! 

Sen.  Dead? 

Bra.  Ay,  to  me  ; 

She  is  abus'd,  stol'n  from  me,  and  coiTupted 
By  spells  and  medicines  bought  of  mountebanks : 
For  nature  so  preposterously  to  'err, 
Being  not  deficient,  blind,  or  lame  of  sense,*^ 
Sans  witchcraft  could  not — 

*  Marcus  Luccicos.  Buth  the  folio  and  the  quarto  give  this 
proper  name  thus.  Capell  changed  it  to  Marcus  Lucchese, 
saying  that  such  a  termination  as  Luccicos  is  unknown  in  tlie 
Italian.  But  who  is  the  duke  inquiring  after  ?  Most  pro- 
bably a  Greek  soldier  of  Cyprus — an  Estradiot— one  who 
from  his  local  knowledge  was  enabled  to  give  him  informa- 
tion. Is  it  necessary  that  the  Greek  should  bear  an  Italian 
name  ?  And  does  not  the  termination  in  cos  better  convey 
the  notion  which  we  believe  the  poet  to  have  had  ? 

■•  This  is  ordinarily  printed  after  the  quarto — 

"  Write  from  us  ;  tvish  him  post-post-haste  :  despatch." 

■^  This  line  is  wanting  in  the  quarto. 

267 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK    III. 


Duke.  Whoe'er  he  be,  that  in  this  foul  pro- 
ceeding 
Hath  thus  beguil'd  your  daughter  of  herself, 
And  you  of  her,  the  bloody  book  of  law 
You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter,  * 
After  your  own  sense ;  yea,  though  our  proper  son 
Stood  in  your  action. 

Bra.  Humbly  I  thank  your  grace. 

Here  is  the  man,  this  Moor;  whom  now, it  seems, 
Your  special  mandate,  for  the  state  affairs. 
Hath  hither  brought. 

All.  We  are  very  sorry  for  't. 

Diilce.  What,  in  your  own  part,  can  you  say 
to  this  ?  [To  Othello. 

Bra.  Nothing,  but  this  is  so. 

0th.    Most     potent,    grave,     and    reverend 
signiors. 
My  very  noble  and  approv'd  good  masters, — 
That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true ;  true,  I  have  married  her  ; 
The  very  head  and  front  of  my  offending 
Hath  this  extent,  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  my 

speech. 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  soft"  phrase  of  peace  ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years' 

pith, 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,**  they  have  us'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak. 
More  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broils  and  battle ; 
And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 
In  speaking  for  myself:  Yet,  by  your  gracious 

patience. 
I  will  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love :  what  drugs,  what 

charms. 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter.*^ 

Bra.  A  maiden  never  bold  ; 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet,  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself:  And  she,  in  spite  of  nature. 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  every  thing. 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  fear'd  to  look  on  1 
It  is  a  judgment  maim'd,  and  most  imperfect, 
That  will  confess,  perfection  so  could  err 
Against  all  rules  of  nature  ;  and  must  be  driven 
To  find  out  pi-actices  of  cvmning  hell. 
Why  this  should  be.     I  therefore  vouch  again, 

»  Soft.    The  quarto  set.    We  have  a  similar  use  of  the 
word  soft  in  Coriolanus : — 

"  Say  to  them, 
Thou  art  their  soldier,  and,  beii)g  bred  in  broils. 
Hast  not  the  soft  way,  wliich  thou  dost  confess 
Were  lit  for  thee  to  use." 
^  He  had  been  unemployed  during  nine  months. 
"^  See  note  in  Cymbeline,  Act  v.,  Sc.  v. 
268 


That  with  some  mixtures  powerful  o'er  the  blood, 
Or  with  some  dram  conjur'd  to  this  effect. 
He  wrought  upon  her. 

Duke.  To  vouch  this  is  no  proof; 

Without  more  wider"  and  more  overt  test. 
Than  these  thin  habits,  and  poor  likelihoods 
Of  modern  seeming,  do  prefer  against  him. 

1  Sen.  But,  Othello,  speak  : 
Did  you  by  indirect  and  forced  courses 
Subdue  and  poison  this  young  maid's  affections? 
Or  came  it  by  request,  and  such  fair  question 
As  soul  to  soul  affordeth? 

0th.  I  do  beseech  you. 

Send  for  the  lady  to  the  Sagittary, 
And  let  her  speak  of  me  before  her  father : 
If  you  do  find  me  foul  in  her  report, 
The  trust,  the  office,  I  do  hold  of  you,"* 
Not  only  take  away,  but  let  your  sentence 
Even  fall  upon  my  life. 

Duke,  Fetch  Desdemona  hither. 

0th.  Ancient,  condvtct  them  :  you  best  know 
the  place. 

\_Exeimt  Iago  and  Attendants. 
And,  till  she  come,  as  truly  as  to  heaven 
I  do  confess  the  vices  of  my  blood,*^ 
So  justly  to  your  grave  ears  I'll  present 
How  I  did  thrive  in  this  fair  lady's  love, 
And  she  in  mine. 

Duke.  Say  it,  Othello. 

0th.  Her  father  lov'd  me  ;  oft  invited  me  ; 
Still  question'd  me  the  story  of  my  life. 
From  year  to  year ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortune,'' 
That  I  have  pass'd. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances  ; 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field ; 
Of  hair-breadth  'scapes  i'  the  imminent  deadly 

breach ; 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe 
And  sold  to  slavery ;  of  my  redemption  thence. 
And  portance.     In  my  traveller's  history,"^ 

»  Wider.     Tlie  quarto  certain. 

^  Tliis  line  is  wanting  iu  the  quarto. 

"  Tills  line  is  also  wanting  in  the  quarto. 

*  The  reading  of  the  folio  is — battle,  sieges,  fortune. 

*  Traveller' s  history.  Othello  modestly,  and  somewhat 
jocosely,  calls  his  wonderful  relations,  a  traveller's  history — 
a  term  by  which  the  marvellous  stories  of  the  Lithgows  and 
Ciiryats  were  wont  to  be  designated  in  Shakspere's  day. 
This  is  enfeebled  by  the  quarto  into  travel's  history.  We 
have  ventured  to  change  the  punctuation  of  the  text,  for  the 
ordinary  reading  is  certainly  unintelligible.  We  subjoin 
that  reading  as  it  is  found  in  the  curient  editions  : — 

"  Of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  portance  iu  my  travel's  history  : 
Wherein  ofantres  vast,  and  desarts  idle. 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads  touch  heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,  such  was  the  process." 


Arrl.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK    III. 


(Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  desarts  idle,* 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads 

touch  heaven, 
It  was  my  hint  to  speak,)  such  was  my  process  ; — 
And  of  the  Cannihals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow^'  beneath  their  shoulders.'^   These  things 

to  hear 
V/ould  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 
But  still  the  house  affiiirs  would  draw  her  thence ; 
Which  ever  as  she  coidd  with  haste  despatch, 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse  :  Which  I  observing. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour ;  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart. 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate. 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively  :''  I  did  consent ; 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  sufFer'd.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore,*^ — In  faith, 'twas  strange,  'twas  passing 

strange ; 
'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wish'd  she  had  not  heard  it;  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  '^  she 

thank'd  me  ; 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  lier, 
I  sliould  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story. 
And  that  would  woo   her.     Upon   this   hint  I 

spake  : 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd; 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 

°  Idle.  Sterile,  bam'n.  Pope  reads  mii'W,  wliich  he  found 
in  tlie  second  foUo ;  and  Giffbrd  somewhat  peevishly  defends 
that  reading,  in  a  note  on  Ben  Jonson's  '  Sejanus.' 

^  Do  grow,  as  iu  the  quarto.     The  folio,  grew. 

"  Intentiveli/.  So  the  quarto;  the  foUo  re^ils  instincHi'eli/ 
— a  decided  typographical  error.  Tliis,  and  a  few  other 
errors  of  the  same  sort  which  are  corrected  by  reference  to 
the  text  of  the  quarto,  prove  that  the  folio  was  printed  fiom 
a  manuscript  copy :  and  printed  most  probably  before  tlie 
publication  of  the  quarto:  for  had  it  been  consulted  tliese 
mistakes  would  not  have  occurred. 

■•  She  sivure.  Steevens  has  a  most  extraordinary  note  upon 
this  expression.  He  discovered  in  Wliitaker's  '  Vindication 
of  Mary  Queen  of  Scotts,'  that  to  aver  upon  faith  and 
honour  was  called  swearing.  He  had  previously  considered 
that  Desdemona  had  come  out  with  a  good  round  oath  — a 
bold  and  masculine  oath,  as  he  calls  it — and,  having  this  im- 
pression, lie  had  often  condemned  the  passage  "  as  one  among 
many  proofs  of  Shakspere's  inability  to  exhibit  the  delicate 
graces  of  female  conversation  !"  Perhaps  theremainder  of  his 
many  proofs  would  in  the  same  way  have  been  destroyed,  if 
he  had  possessed  the  slightest  capacity  for  distinguishing 
between  the  true  and  the  meretricious  iu  sentiment  and  style ; 
but  what  could  be  expected  of  a  man  who,  writing  notes  upon 
the  Sonnets,  laments  his  "  piteous  constraint  to  re.id  such 
stuff  at  all." 

=  Tieck  says  that  Eschenbnrg  has  fallen  into  the  mistake 
of  translating  this  passage  as  if  Desdemona  had  wished  that 
lieaven  had  made  such  a  man  /;iher,  instead  of  wishing  tliat 
heaven  had  created  her  as  brave  as  the  hero  to  whose  story 
she  had  given  "  a  world  of  sighs."  We  are  not  sure  that 
Eschenbnrg  is  wrong. 


Traqedies. — Vol.  I. 


2M 


This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  iis'd; 
Here  comes  the  lady,  let  her  witness  it. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Iago,  and  Attendants. 

DuJce.  I  think  this  tale  would  win  my  daugh- 
ter too. 
Good  Brabantio, 

Take  up  this  mangled  matter  at  the  best : 
Men  do  their  broken  weapons  rather  use, 
Than  their  bare  hands. 

Bra.  I  pray  you,  hear  her  speak  ; 

If  she  confess  that  she  was  half  the  wooer. 
Destruction  on  my  head  if  my  bad  blame 
Light  on  the  man  ! — Come  hither,  gentle  mis- 
tress ; 
Do  yon  perceive  in  all  this  noble  company 
Where  most  j'ou  owe  obedience? 

Des.  My  noble  father, 

I  do  perceive  here  a  divided  duty : 
To  you,  I  am  boiuid  for  life  and  education; 
My  life  and  education  both  do  learn  me 
How  to  respect  you;  you  are  the  lord  of  duty; — 
I   am  hitherto  your  daughter:  But  here's  my 

husband ; 
And  so  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  yon  before  her  father. 
So  much  I  challenge  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

Bra.         God  be  with  you  I — I  have  done : — 
Please  it  your  grace,  on  to  the  state  affairs ; 
I  had  rather  to  adopt  a  child  than  get  it. 
Come  hither.  Moor: 

I  here  do  give  thee  that  with  all  my  heart. 
Which,  but  thou  hast  already,  with  all  my  heart 
I  would  keep  from  thee. —  For  your  sake,  jewel, 
I  am  glad  at  soid  I  have  no  other  child; 
For  thy  escape  would  teach  me  tyranny. 
To  hang  clogs  on  them. — I  have  done,  my  lord. 

Ditke.  Let  me  speak  like  yourself;  and  lay  a 
sentence. 
Which,  as   a  grise,   or   step,    may   help  these 

lovers.* 
When  remedies  are  past,  the  griefs  are  ended, 
By  seeing  the  worst,  which  late  on  hopes  de- 
pended. 
To  mourn  a  mischief  that  is  past  and  gone 
Is  the  next  way  to  draw  new  mischief  on. 
What  cannot  be  preserv'd  when  fortune  takes. 
Patience  her  injury  a  mockery  makes. 
The   robb'd  that  smiles  steals  something  from 

the  thief; 
He  robs  himself  that  spends  a  bootless  grief. 

Bra.  So  let  the  Turk  of  Cyprus  us  beguile  ; 
We  lose  it  not  so  long  as  we  can  smile. 

*  The  quarto  adds,  into  yimr  favour. 

269, 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK  III, 


He  bears  the  sentence  well  that  nothing  bears 
But  the   free   comfort  which   from   thence   he 

hears : 
But  he  bears  both  the  sentence  and  the  soiTow 
That,  to  pay  grief,  must  of  poor  patience  borrow. 
These  sentences,  to  sxigar,  or  to  gall. 
Being  strong  on  both  sides,  are  equivocal : 
But  words  are  words ;  I  never  yet  did  hear 
That  the  hruis'd  heart  was  pierced  through  the 

ear." 
I  humbly  beseech  you,  proceed  to  the  affairs  of 
state. 

Duke.  The  Turk  with  a  most  mighty  pre- 
paration makes  for  Cyprus : — Othello,  the  forti- 
tude of  the  place  is  best  known  to  you :  And 
though  we  have  there  a  substitute  of  most 
allowed  sufficiency,  yet  opinion,  a  more  sove- 
reign mistress  of  effects,  thi-ows  a  more  safer 
voice  on  you  :  you  must  therefore  be  content  to 
slubber  the  gloss  of  your  new  fortunes  with 
this  more  stubborn  and  boisterous  expedition. 

0th.  The  tyrant  custom,  most  grave  senators, 
Hath  made  the  flinty  and  steel  couch  of  war 
My  thrice-driven  bed  of  down  :  I  do  agnize'' 
A  natm-al  and  prompt  alacrity 
I  find  in  hai'dness ;  and  do  undertake 
These  present  wars  against  the  Ottomites. 
Most  humbly  therefore  bending  to  your  state, 
I  crave  fit  disposition  for  my  wife  ; 
Due  reference  of  place,  and  exhibition  ; 
With  such  accommodation,  and  besort. 
As  levels  with  her  breeding. 

DuJce.  Why;  at  her  father's. 

Bra.  I  will  not  have  it  so. 

0th.  Nor  I. 

Des.  I  would  not  there  reside, 
To  put  my  father  in  impatient  thoughts, 
By  being  in  his  eye.     Most  gracious  duke. 
To  my  unfolding  lend  your  prosperous  ear;'= 
And  let  me  find  a  charter  in  your  voice 
To  assist  my  simpleness. 

DuJce.  What  would  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  That  I  love  the  Moor  to  live  with  him,<^ 

'  Pierced.     Steeveng,  accepting  this  literally,  says  "  the 
consequence  of  a  bruise  is  stimetimes  matter  collected,  and 
this  can  no  ways  be  cured  without  piercing — letting  it  out." 
Warburton  proposed  to  read  pieced.     Spenser  has, — 
"  Her  words     .... 

Which  passing  through  the  ears  would  pierce  the  heart." 
(Spenser— Frtj)!/  Queen,  Book  iv.  C.  8.) 
Pierced  is  not  here  used  by  Spenser  in  the  sense  of  wounded — 
hnt  simply  penetrated,  which  is  probably  the  meaning  of  the 
text. 

■>  Agnize.     Confess,  acknowledge. 

"   Your  prosperous  car.     The  quarto  reads,  a  gracious  ear. 

rt  The  quarto  reads.  That  I  did  \o\e  the  Moor.  Hut  her 
love  remains,  and  the  word  did,  though  it  assists  the  rhythm, 
enfeebles  the  sense. 

270 


My  downright  violence  and  storm  of  fortunes 

May  tnnnpet  to  the  world :  my  heart's  subdued 

Even  to  the  very  quality  of  my  lord  : 

I  saw  Othello's  visage  in  his  mind ; 

And  to  his  honours  and  his  valiant  parts 

Did  I  my  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 

So  that,  dear  lords,  if  I  be  left  behind, 

A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war, 

The  rights  for  why  I  love  him  are  bereft  me, 

And  I  a  heavy  interim  shall  support 

By  his  dear  absence  :  Let  me  go  with  him. 

0th.  Let  her  have  your  voice. 
Vouch  with  me,  heaven,  I  therefore  beg  it  not,* 
To  please  the  palate  of  my  appetite  ; 
Nor  to  comply  with  heat  the  young  affects, 
j   In  my  defunct  and  proper  satisfaction  ;** 
But  to  be  free  and  bounteous  to  her  mind : 
And  heaven  defend  your  good  souls,  that  you 

think 
I  will  your  serious  and  great  business  scant. 
When  she  is  with  me  :  No,  when  light-wing'd 

toys 
Of  feather'd  Cupid  seel  with  wanton  dulness 
My  speculative  and  offlc'd  instrument,' 
That  my  disports  corrupt  and  taint  my  business, 
Let  housewives  make  a  skillet  of  my  helm, 
And  all  indign  and  base  adversities 
Make  head  against  my  estimation. 

Duke.  Be  it  as  you  shall  privately  determine, 
Either  for  her  stay  or  going  :  the  affair  cries 

haste, 
And  speed  must  answer  it. 

'  So  the  folio.    The  quarto  reads, — 

"  Your  voices,  lords,  beseech  you  let  her  will 
Have  a  free  way,  I  therefore  beg  it  not,"  &c. 
The  modern  editions  give  us  a  made-up  text  of  the  I'olio  and 
the  quarto ;  altogether  one  of  the  worst  modes  of  emendation. 

''  We  print  this  passage  (which  Steevens  says  will  prove  a 
lasting  source  of  doubt  and  controversy)  as  we  find  it. 
Theobald  has  changed  the  word  defunct  to  distinct,  which  is 
the  ordinary  reading.  Malone  gives  us  disjunct.  We  would 
only  ol)serve,  that  comply  may  be  used  in  the  sense  oi  supply, 
that  affects  are  affections,  and  tliat  defunct  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  dead.  Tyrwhitt  considers  that  defunct  may  be 
used  in  the  Latin  sense  at  performed.  As  function  has  the 
same  Latin  root,  we  woulcf  suggest  that  Shakspere  used 
defunct  for  functional,  and  then  the  meaning  is  clear ;  nor  to 
gratify  the  young  afl'ections,  in  my  official  and  individual 
satisfaction. 

"  The  reading  of  the  quarto  is — 

"  No,  when  light-wing'd  toys. 
And  feather'd  Cupid/ot^s  with  wanton  dulness. 
My  speculative  and  active  instruments." 
The  modern  editors  have  made  up  a  text  between  the  riuarto 
and  the  folio  They  reject  the  foils  of  the  quarto,  and  adopt 
the  seel  of  the  folio ;  while  they  substitute  the  active  of  the 
quarto  for  the  offic'd  of  the  folio.  Having  accomplished  this 
hocus  pocus,  they  tell  us  that  speculative  instruments  are  the 
eyes,  and  active  instruments  the  hands  and  feet ;  that  to  see/  is 
to  close  the  e3  elids  of  a  bird,  which  applies  very  properly  to  the 
speculative  instruments,  but  that  foils  better  suits  the  active. 
It  is  their  own  work  that  they  are  quarrelling  with,  and  not 
that  of  the  author.  Either  reading  is  good,  if  they  had  let  it 
alone.  The  speculative  and  active  instruments,  which  are 
/yiVed,  are  the  thoughts  and  the  senses;  the  speculative  and 
offic'd  instrument,  which  is  seeled,  is  the  whole  man  in  medi- 
tation and  in  action.  When  the  poet  adopted  the  more 
expressive  word  seel,  he  did  not  le.avo  the  ugly  anomaly 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SOKNE    III. 


Sen.  You  must  away  to-night. 

0th.  With  all  my  heart." 

Duke.  At  nine  i'  the  morning  here  we'll  meet 
again. 
Othello,  leave  some  officer  behind, 
And  he  shall  our  commission  bring  to  you ; 
And  such  things  else  of  quality  and  respect 
As  doth  import  you. 

0th.  So  please  your  grace,  my  ancient ; 

A  man  he  is  of  honesty  and  trust : 
To  his  conveyance  I  assign  my  wife, 
With  what  else  needful  your  good  grace  shall 

think 
To  be  sent  after  me. 

Duke.  Let  it  be  so. 

Good  night  to  every  one. — And,  noble  signior, 

\_To  Brabantio. 
If  virtue  no  delighted  beauty  lack, 
Yovn-  son-in-law  is  far  more  fair  than  black. 

1  Sen,  Adieu,  brave  Moor  !   use  Desdemona 
well. 

Bar.  Look  to  her,   Moor,    if  thou  hast  eyes 
to  see  ;*" 
She  has  deceiv'd  her  fathei*,  and  may  thee. 

{^Exeunt  Duke,  Senators,  Officers,  Sfc. 

0th.  My  life  upon  her  faith !     Honest  lago, 
My  Desdemona  must  I  leave  to  thee  ; 
I  prithee  let  thy  wife  attend  on  her ; 
And  bring  them  after  in  the  best  advantage. 
Come,  Desdemona,  I  have  but  an  hour 
Of  love,  of  worldly  matter  and  direction, 
To  spend  with  thee  :  we  must  obey  the  time. 

\_Exeimt  Othello  and  Desdemona. 

Rod.  lago. 

lago.  What  say'st  thou,  noble  heart? 

Rod.  W^hat  will  I  do,  think'st  thou  ? 

lago.  Why,  go  to  bed  and  sleep. 

Rod.  I  will  incontinently  drown  myself. 

lago.  If  thou  dost  I  shall  never  love  thee 
after.     Why,  thou  silly  gentleman  ! 

Rod.  It  is  silliness  to  live  when  to  live  is 
tonnent :  and  then  have  we  a  prescription  to 
die  when  death  is  our  physician. 

lago.  O  villanous !  I  have  looked  upon  the 
world  for  four  times  seven  years  ;  and  since  I 
could  distinguish  betwixt  a  benefit  and  an  in- 


wliich  the  commentators  have  made.  He  took  the  whole 
man  as  an  instrument,  spiritual  and  material,  and  meta- 
jihorically  seeled  tlie  perceptions  of  that  iusuumont. 

*  The  reading  of  the  quarto,  which  the  modern  editors  do 
not  hesitate  to  follow ,  is, — 

"  And  speed  must  answer  it;  you  must  hence  to  night. 

Des.  Tu-night,  my  lurd  ? 

Duke.  Tills  night. 

0th.  With  all  my  heai-t." 

It  appears  to  us  that  the  careful  rejection  of  lire  speech  of 
Desdemona  was  a  great  im\irovement  iu  the  folio. 
•"The  quarto  reads — have  a  quick  eye  to  see. 


jury,  I  never  found  man  that  knew  how  to  love 
liimself.  Ere  I  would  say  I  would  drown  my- 
self for  the  love  of  a  Guinea-hen,  I  would 
change  my  humanity  with  a  baboon. 

Rod.  What  should  I  do  ?  I  confess  it  is  my 
shame  to  be  so  fond ;  but  it  is  not  in  my  virtue 
to  amend  it. 

lago.  Virtue?  a  fig  !  'tis  in  ourselves  that  we 
are  thus,  or  thus.  Our  bodies  are  our  gardens ; 
to  the  which  our  wills  are  gardeners  :  so  that  if 
we  will  plant  nettles,  or  sow  lettuce  ;  set  hyssop, 
and  weed  up  thyme ;  supply  it  with  one  gender 
of  herbs,  or  distract  it  with  many ;  either  to 
have  it  steril  with  idleness,  or  manured  with 
industiy  ;  why,  the  power  and  corrigible  autho- 
rity of  this  lies  in  our  wills.  If  the  balance  of 
our  lives  had  not  one  scale  of  reason  to  poise 
another  of  sensuality,  the  blood  and  baseness  of 
our  natures  would  conductus  to  most  preposterous 
conclusions :  But  we  have  reason  to  cool  our 
raging  motions,  our  carnal  stings,  our  unbitted 
lusts  ;  whereof  I  take  this,  that  you  call  love,  to 
be  a  sect'  or  scion. 

Rod.  It  cannot  be. 

lago.  It  is  mei'ely  a  lust  of  the  blood,  and  a 
permission  of  the  will.  Come,  lie  a  man : 
Drown  thyself?  drown  cats  and  blind  puppies. 
I  have  professed  me  thy  friend,  and  I  confess 
me  knit  to  thy  deserving  with  cables  of  per- 
durable toughness.  I  could  never  better  stead 
thee  than  now.  Put  money  in  thy  purse ;  fol- 
low thou  the  wars  ;  defeat  thy  favour  **  with  an 
usurped  beard ;  I  say,  put  money  in  thy  purse. 
It  cannot  be  long  that  Desdemona  should  con- 
tinue her  love  to  the  Moor, — put  money  in  thy 
purse  ; — nor  he  his  to  her :  it  was  a  violent 
commencement  in  her,  and  thou  shalt  see  an 
answerable  sequestration  ; — put  but  money  in 
thy  purse. — These  Moors  are  changeable  in 
their  wills  ; — fill  thy  purse  with  money :  the 
food  that  to  him  now  is  as  luscious  as  locusts, 
shall  be  to  him  shortly  as  bitter  as  coloquintida. 
She  must  change  for  youth  :  when  she  is  sated 
with  his  body  she  will  find  the  errors  of  her 
choice.  Therefore  put  money  in  thy  pm-se. — If 
thou  wilt  needs  damn  thyself,  do  it  a  more 
delicate  way  than  drowning.  Make  all  the 
money  thou  canst:  If  sanctimony  and  a  frail 
vow,  betwixt  an  erring*^  barbarian  and  super- 
subtle  Venetian,  be  not  too  hard  for  my  wits 
and  all  the  tribe  of  hell,  thou  shalt  enjoy  her  ; 
therefore   make   money.     A   pox  of  drowning 

•  A  sect.     What  we  now  call  in  horticulture  a  cutting. 
^  Defeat  thy  favour — change  thy  countenance. 
"=  £)rmp— used  in    the  same   sense  as  extravagant,  in  a 
previous  scene. 

271 


Act  I.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK    III. 


thyself!  it  is  dean  out  of  the  way  :  seek  thou 
rather  to  be  lianged  iu  compassing  thy  joy,  tlian 
to  be  drowned  and  go  withoiit  her. 

Rod.  Wilt  thou  be  fast  to  my  hopes,  if  I  de- 
pend on  the  issue  ? 

lago.  Thou  art  siu'e  of  me; — Go,  make 
money:  I  have  told  thee  often,  and  I  re-tell  thee 
again  and  again,  I  hate  the  Moor  :  My  cause  is 
hearted;  thine  hath  no  less  reason:  Let  us  be 
conjunctive  in  oiu-  revenge  against  him  :  if  thou 
canst  cuckold  him,  thou  dost  thyself  a  pleasin-e, 
me  a  sport.  There  are  many  events  in  the 
womb  of  time  which  will  be  delivered.  Tra- 
verse ;  go ;  provide  thy  money.  We  will  have 
more  of  this  to-morrow.     Adieu. 

Rod.  Where  shall  we  meet  i'  the  morning  1 

logo.  At  my  lodging. 

Rod.  I'll  be  with  thee  betimes. 

lago.  Go  to ;  farewell.  Do  you  heai',  Rode- 
rigo? 

\_Rod.  What  say  you  ? 

lago.  No  more  of  drowning,  do  you  hear.] 

Rod.  [I  am  changed.]     I'll  sell  all  my  land. 

lago.  [Go  to ;  farewell !  put  money  enough 
in  your  purse. ]^  \_E,vit  Roderigo. 

"■  The  passages  m  brackets  are  not  in  tlie  folio. 


Thus  do  I  ever  make  my  fool  my  purse  : 
For  I  mine  own  gain'd  knowledge  should  pro- 
fane, 
If  I  would  time  expend  with  such  a  snipe. 
But  for  my  sport  and  profit.     I  hate  the  Moor ; 
And  it  is  thoiight  abroad,  that  'twixt  my  sheets 
He  has   done   my  office :    I  know  not  if  't  be 

true ; 
But  I,  for  mere  suspicion  in  that  kind. 
Will  do,  as  if  for  surety.     He  holds  me  well ; 
The  better  shall  my  purpose  work  on  him. 
Cassio's  a  proper  man  :  Let  me  see  now  ; 
To  get  his  place,  and  to  plume  up  my  will ; 
In  double  knavery, — How?  how? — Let's  see: — 
After  some  time,  to  abuse  Othello's  ear 
That  he  is  too  familiar  with  his  wife  : 
He  hath  a  person,  and  a  smooth  dispose, 
To  be  suspected ;  fram'd  to  make  women  false. 
The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature. 
That   thinks    men    honest    that  but   seem    to 

be  so ; 
And  will  as  tenderly  be  led  by  the  nose, 
As  asses  are. 

I  have't; — it  is  engender'd:— Hell  and  night 
Must  bring  this  monstrous  birth  to  the  woi-ld's 
light.  [_Exit. 


[Arsenal  at  Venice.] 
Lead  to  the  Sagittary  the  raised  search.' 


272 


[Rhodes.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    I. 


1  Scene  I.—"  The  thic/i-/ips.'' 

This  passage  has  been  received  as  indicating'  the 
intention  of  Shakspere  to  make  Othello  a  Negro. 
It  is  very  probable  tliat  the  popular  notion  of  a 
Moor  was  somewhat  confused  in  Shakspere's  time, 
and  that  the  descendants  of  the  proud  Arabs  who 
had  borne  sovereign  sway  in  Europe  ("  men  of 
royal  siege"),  and,  what  is  more,  had  filled  an  age 
of  comparative  darkness  with  the  light  of  their 
poetry  and  their  science,  were  confounded  with  the 
uncivilized  African — the  despised  slave.  We  do  not 
think,  however,  that  Shakspere  had  any  other  in- 
tention than  to  paint  Othello  as  one  of  the  most 
noble  and  accomplished  of  the  proud  children  of  the 
Ommiades  and  the  Abbasides.  The  expression, 
"thick-Zips,''''  from  the  mouth  of  Roderigo,  can  only 
be  received  dramatically,  as  a  nick-name  given  to 
Othello  by  the  folly  and  ill-nature  of  this  coxcomb. 
Whatever  may  have  been  the  practice  of  the  stage 
even  in  Shakspere's  time— and  it  is  by  no  means 
improbable  that  Othello  was  represented  as  a  Ne- 
gro— the  whole  context  of  the  play  is  against  the 
notion.  Coleridge  has  very  acutely  remarked,  with 
reference  to  the  present  practice  of  making  him  a 
black-a-moor — "  Even  if  we  supposed  this  an  un- 
interrupted tradition  of  the  theatre,  and  that  Shak- 
spere himself,  from  want  of  scenes,  and  the  experi- 
ence that  nothing  could  be  made  too  marked  for 
the  senses  of  his  audience,  had  practically  sanc- 
tioned it,  would  this  prove  aught  concerning  his 
own  intention  as  a  poet  for  all  ages?  "*  Rymer,  in 
hismost  amusingly-absurd  attack  upon  this  tragedy, 
seems  to  confound  the  notion  of  Moor  and  Negro, 
without  any   reference   to   the  stage.     "  The    cha.- 

•  Liter:irv  Keraains.     Vol.  ii.  p.  257. 


racter  of  that  state  (Venice)  is  to  employ  strangers 
in  their  wars;  but  shall  a  poet  thence  fancy  that 
they  will  set  a  Negro  to  be  their  general,  or  trust 
a  Moor  to  defend  them  against  the  Turk?  With 
us  a  black-a-moor  might  rise  to  be  a  trumpeter; 
but  Shakspere  would  not  have  him  less  than  a 
lieutenant-general.  With  us  a  Moor  might  marry 
some  little  drab,  or  small-coal  wench :  Shakspere 
would  provide  him  the  daughter  and  heir  of  some 
great  lord,  or  privy  councillor ;  and  all  the  town 
sliould  reckon  it  a  very  suitable  match.  Yet  the 
English  are  not  bred  up  witli  that  hatred  and  aver- 
sion to  the  Moors  as  are  the  Venetians,  who  suffer 
by  a  perpetual  hostility  from  them.  Littora  littori- 
biis  coutraria.  Nothing  is  more  odious  in  nature 
than  an  improbable  lie  ;  and  certainly,  never  was  any 
play  fraught,  like  this  of  Othello,  with  improliabili- 
ties."*  Rymer's  accuracy  is  not  more  to  be  de- 
pended on  than  his  taste.  In  a  subsequent  page  he 
says,  "  This  senator's  daughter  runs  away  to  a  cur- 
rier''s  inn,  the  Sagittary,  with  a  black-a-moor." 
Shakspere's  local  knowledge  was  more  to  be  de- 
pended upon  than  the  guessing  learning  of  the 
editor  of  the  Fcedera.  The  Sagittary  was  not  an 
inn  (see  note  on  that  passage) ;  nor  were  the  ^'e- 
netians  in  perpetual  hostility  with  the  Moors.  Upon 
this  subject  we  are  favoured  with  the  following  ob- 
servations from  the  friend  who  contributed  some 
local  illustrations  to  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Every  sliade  of  complexion  is  even  now  familiar 
to  Venetians,  and  was  yet  more  so  in  former  days. 
Groups  of  Greeks,  Africans,  and  natives  of  botli  In- 
dies, may  be  daily  seen  in  the  great  squares  of 
Venice,  conversing  in  the  arcades,  or  gathered 
about  the  cafes.      In  the  ages  of  her  splendour, 

*  Short  View  uf  Tia(,'pily,  loa.'i,  p.  91. 

273 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


Venice  was  thronged  with  foreigners  from  every 
climate  of  the  earth ;  and  nowhere  else,  perhaps, 
has  prejudice  of  colour  been  so  feeble.  A  more  im- 
portant fact,  as  regards  Desdemona's  attachment, 
is  that  it  was  the  policy  of  the  Republic  to  employ 
foreign  mercenaries,  and  especially  in  offices  of 
command,  for  the  obvious  purpose  of  lessening  to 
the  utmost  the  danger  of  cabal  and  intrigue  at 
home.  The  families  of  senators,  or  other  chief  ci- 
tizens, were  in  the  habit  of  seeing,  in  their  dark- 
complexioned  guests,  those  only  who  were  distin- 
guislied  by  ability,  and  by  the  official  rank  thereby 
gaiTied: — picked  men,  whose  hue  might  be  forgotten 
in  their  accomplishments. 

*  Scene  I.—"  To  sla7-t  my  quiet." 
The  singular  quiet  of  residences  on  the  canals  of 
Venice  seems  to  have  been,  at  all  times,  a  temptation 
to  "start"  it  by  practical  jokes.  The  houses  may 
be  approached  and  quitted  so  stealthily  as  to  render 
it  extremely  easy  to  cause  an  alarm.  We  have 
seen  great  confusion  occasioned  by  a  single  wag, 
who,  late  in  the  evening,  kept  up  a  succession  of 
thundering  knocks  at  the  great  palace-doors  on 
eitherside  of  the  Grand  Canal,  approaching  each  by 
swimming,  and  diving  the  moment  the  trick  was 
played.  The  starting  the  quiet  of  elderly  citizens 
was  an  easy  revenge  for  the  disappointed  lovers  of 
their  daughters,  and  an  infliction  with  which  old 
Brabantio  seems  to  have  been  well  acquainted.  (M.) 

'  Scene  I. — "  Transported  with  no  worse, 

a  gondolier. ^^ 

The  word  "knave,"  with  its  answering  terms  in 
foreign  languages,  seems  to  be  the  most  approved 
description  of  an  ancient  and  modern  gondolier. 
The  reply  in  Venice  to  our  question,  whether  gon- 
doliers really  were  usually  knaves,  was,  "  O  !  oui, — 
naturellement."  The  explanation  of  "  naturelle- 
ment"  is,  that  tlie  gondoliers  are  the  only  conveyers 
of  persons,  and  of  a  large  proportion  of  property,  in 
Venice;  that  theyare  thus  cognizant  of  all  intrigues, 
and  the  fittest  agents  in  them,  and  are  under  per- 
petual and  strong  temptation  to  make  profit  of  the 
secrets  of  society.  Brabantio  might  well  be  in  hor- 
ror at  his  daughter  having,  in  "the  dull  watch  o' 
tlie  night,"  "no  worse  nor  better  guard."  (M.) 

*  Scene  III. — "  The'Turkish  preparation  makes 
for  Rhodes.'''' 

Reed,  in  his  edition  of  Shakspere,  has  the  follow- 
ing observation  : — "  We  learn  from  the  play  that 
there  was  a  junction  of  the  Turkish  fleet  at  Rhodes, 
in  order  for  the  invasion  of  Cyprus ;  tliat  it  first 
came  sailing  towards  Cyprus,  then  went  to  Rhodes, 
tliere  met  anotlier  squadron,  and  tlien  resumed  its 
way  to  Cyprus.  These  are  real  historical  facts 
which  happened  when  Mustapha,  Selymus's  general, 
attacked  Cyprus  in  May,  1570." 

*  Scene   III. —         "  the  bloody  hook  of  law 

You  shall  yourself  read  in  the  bitter  letter." 

We  now  know  for  a  certainty,  through  the  re- 
searches of  Mr.  Collier,  that  Othello  was  performed 
274 


in  1602;  and  yet  it  would  seem  that  this  passage 
has  a  direct  allusion  to  a  statute  of  the  first  James. 
When  Othello  says, — 
"  I  win  a  round  unvariiish'd  tale  deliver 
Of  my  whole  course  of  love  ;  what  drugs,  wliat  charms, 
VVhat  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic, 
(For  such  proceeding  I  am  charg'd  withal,) 
I  won  his  daughter," 
he    almost  uses  the  very  words  of  the    statute, 
which  enacts.  That  if  any  person  or  persons  should 
take  upon  him  or  them,  by  witchcraft,  iitchantment, 
charm,  or  sorcery — to  the  intent  to  provoke  any 
person  to  unlawful  love,  and  being  thereof  lawfully 
convicted,  he  or  they  should,  for  the  first  offence, 
suffer   imprisonment,  &c.     Might  not  this  passage 
have  been  added  to  the  original  copy  of  the  tragedy  ? 
This  particular   superstition  was,   however,   much 
earlier  than  the  period  of  our  witch-hunting  James. 
We  find  a  curious  story  of  this  nature  in  Skelton 
about  the  enchantment  of  Charlemagne   which  he 
says  he  had  from 

"  Fraunces  Petrarke, 
That  much  noble  clerke." 

^  Scene  III. — "  The  Anthropophagi,  and  men  ichose 
heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.'" 
In  the  third  act  of  the  Tempest,  Gonzalo  says, — 

"  When  we  were  hoys, 
Wlio  would  believe  that  there  were  mouutaineers, 
Dew-lapp'd  liUe  bulls,  whose  throats  had  hanging  at  them 
Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Wiose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we  find. 
Each  putter-out  of  one  for  five  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of." 
A   few  lines  before,  Antonio,  half  sneeringly,   re- 
marks,— 

— •  "  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Tliough  fools  at  home  condemn  them." 

The  putter-out  of  one  for  five  was  the  travelling  ad- 
venturer, who  effected  an  insurance  on  his  own  risk 
— the  very  opposite  of  the  principle  of  life-insurances. 
He  was  to  be  the  gainer  if  he  survived  the  dangers 
of  his  expedition.  (See  Illustrations  of  The  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Act  i.  Sc.  iii.)  Mr.  Hunter 
considers  that  the  satire  of  The  Tempest  is  most 
distinctly  pointed  at  Raleigh's  marvellous  tales  in 
his  voyage  to  Guiana,  in  1595.  The  passage  in 
Raleigh  is  certainly  a  singular  proof  of  his  credu- 
lity, for  he  only  affirms  his  own  belief  upon  the 
report  of  others.  "  Next  unto  the  Arvi"  (a  river, 
which  he  says  falls  into  the  Orenoque,  or  Oronoko), 
"  are  two  rivers,  Atoica  and  Caova ;  and  on  that 
brancli  which  is  called  Caova  are  a  nation  of  peo- 
ple whose  heads  appear  not  above  their  shoulders; 
which,  though  it  may  be  thought  a  mere  fable,  yet 
for  mine  own  part  I  am  resolved  it  is  true,  because 
every  childe  in  the  province  of  Arromaia  and 
Canuri  affirme  the  same.  Tliey  are  called  Ewai- 
panoma;  they  are  reported  to  have  their  eyes  in 
their  shoulders,  and  their  mouthes  in  the  middle  of 
their  breasts,  and  that  a  longtraineof  hairegroweth 
backward  betweene  their  shoulders."*  Hondius, 
•  Raleigh's  '  Narrative,'  printed  in  Hackluyt's  '  Voyages,' 


OTHELLO. 


the  Dutch  geographer,  published  in  1599  a  Latin 
translation  of  the  more  remarkable  passages  of 
Raleigh's  tract,  with  plates  of  Anthropophagi, 
Amazons,  and  headless  men.  We  give  a  copy  of 
one  of  these,  omitting  the  Amazon,  But  these  tales 
are  as  old  as  Pliny,  and  of  his  account  of  the 
headless  men  there  is  an  almost  literal  translation 
in  Sir  John  Maundevile's  '  Travels.'  "  And  in 
another  yle,  toward  the  southe,  duellen  folk  of 
foule  stature,  and  of  cursed  kynde,  that  han  no 
liedes,  and  here  eyen  bin  in  here  scholdres."  Mr. 
Hunter  is  so  sure  that  the  passage  in  The  Tempest 
is  meant  to  be  an  attack  upon  Raleigh,  that  he 
proposes  it  as  one  of  his  special  proofs  that  the 
play  was  written  as  early  as  1596.  But  we  may  ask 
liow  we  are  to  account  for  the  difference  of  tone  in 
Othello '?  In  the  passage  before  us  there  is  no  ridi- 
cule— nothing  in  the  slightest  degree  approaching 
to  a  sarcasm.  Othello,  perfectly  simple  and  vera- 
cious,   though   enthusiastic     and   it  may   be   cre- 


dulous, speaks  precisely  in  the  same  spirit  of  liis 
own 

" Most  disastrous  chauces  ; 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  Held  ;" 

and  of 

"  Tlie  Anthropophagi,  and  men  wliose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders." 
In  a  passage  which  has  always  been  misprinted 
"  my  traveTs  history,^''  he  certainly  mentions  his 
adventures  as  "  my  traveller''s  history,'"  which  we 
accept  as  a  playful  allusion  to  the  somewhat  li- 
censed relations  of  travellers'  marvels,  and  he  may 
have  had  Raleigh  in  his  mind.  But  there  is  nothing 
ill-natured  in  this; — nothing,  as  Mr.  Hunter  con- 
tends for  the  passage  in  The  Tempest,  "  to  show 
Shakspeare  bearing  an  effective  testimony  against 
public  and  mischievous  delusions."  Raleigli  himself 
would  certainly  not  have  taken  it  as  a  rebuke  that 
the  valiant  and  high-minded  Othello  should  be 
made  to  speak  after  his  example. 


The  Authvopophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders."] 


275 


[Citadel,  Famagusta.J 


ACT    II. 


SCENE  I.— A  Sea-port  Town  hi  Cijprus.^ 

Enter  Montano  and  Two  Gentlemen. 

Mon.  What  from  the  cape  can  you  discern  at 

sea? 
1  Gent.  Nothing  at  all :  it  is  a  high-wrought 
flood ; 
I  cannot,  'twixt  the  heaven '^  and  the  main, 
Descry  a  sail. 

Mon.  Methinks,  the  wind  hath   spoke  aloud 
at  land; 
A  fuller  blast  ne'er  shook  our  battlements  : 
If  it  hath  ruffian'd  so  upon  the  sea. 
What  ribs  of  oak,  when  mountains  melt  on  them, 
Can  hold  the  mortise?'*  what  shall  we  hear  of 
this? 

"  Heaven.  Tlie  quarto  reads  haven,  which  Malone  adopts, 
because  he  objects  to  "hyperbolical  language  in  the  mouth 
of  a  gentleman,  answering  a  serious  question."  It  is  well 
when  some  reason  is  given  lor  spoiling  poetry.  When  Sliak- 
spere  wrote  this  passage,  and  when  he  made  the  Clown  in 
The  Winter's  Tale  say,  "  Between  the  sea  and  the  Arma- 
ment, you  cannot  thrust  a  bodkin's  point,"  the  poetry  of  the 
image  was  equally  preserved,  though  the  expression  was 
modified  by  the  characters  of  the  speakers. 

b  Mortise.  The  hole  of  one  piece  of  timber  fitted  to  receive 
the  tenon  of  another. 

27G 


2  Ge7it.  A  segregation  of  the  Turkish  fleet : 
For  do  but  stand  upon  the  foaming  shore, 
Tlie  chidden*  billow  seems  to  pelt  the  clouds; 
The   wind-shak'd   surge,    with  high  and  mon- 
strous mane,'' 

■  Chidden.  The  quarto  chiding,  which  the  editors  adopt 
without  noticing  chidden.  How  weak  is  tlie  chiding  billow 
pelting  the  clouds  I  but  the  billow  chidden  by  the  blast  i  sfuU 
of  beauty. 

^  Mane.  In  the  folio  this  word  is  spelt  maine;  in  the 
quarto  miiyrie.  In  each  the  spelling  o(  main  in  the  third  line 
of  this  scene  is  the  same.  But  we  have  ventured  to  reject 
this  consistency  of  orthography,  and  for  the  first  time  to 
print  the  word  mane.  For  what  is  "  high  and  monstrous 
main  ?"  We  use  the  word  main  elliptically ,  for  tlie  main  sea, 
the  great  sea,  as  Shakspere  uses  it  in  the  passage  "  'twixt 
the  heaven  and  the  main."  The  main  is  the  occnn.  Substi- 
tute that  word,  and  what  can  we  make  of  the  passage  before 
us? — "The  witid-shak'd  surge,  with  high  and  monstrous 
ocean."  But  adopt  the  word  mane,  and  it  appears  to  us  that 
we  have  as  fine  an  image  as  any  in  Shakspere.  It  is  more 
striking  even  than  the  passage  in  Henry  IV. — 

"  In  the  visit;ition  of  the  winds. 
Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top. 
Curling  their  monstrous  heads." 

In  the  high  and  monstrous  mane  we  have  a  picture  which  was 
probably  suggested  by  the  noble  passage  in  Job:  "  Hast  thou 
given  the  horse  strength?  Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with 
thunder?"  One  of  the  biblical  commentators  upon  this 
passage  remarks  that  Homer  and  Virgil  mention  the  mane 
of  the  horse:  but  that  the  sacred  author,  by  the  bold  figure 
of  thunder,  expresses  the  shaking  of  the  mane,  and  the^oftes 
of  hair  which  suggest  the  idea  of  lightning.    The  horse  of 


Ai-rll.] 


arHELLa 


fSllliNH  1. 


Seems  to  cast  water  on  the  burning  bear, 
And  quench  the  guards  of  the  ever-iixed  pole  : 
I  never  did  like  molestation  view 
On  th'  enchafed  flood. 

Mon.  If  that  the  Turkish  fleet 

Be    not    enshelter'd    and    embay'd,    they   are 

drown'd  ; 
It  is  impossible  to  bear  it  out. 

Enter  a  Third  Gentleman. 

3  Gent.  News,  lads  I*  our  wars  are  done: 
The  desperate  tempest  hath  so  bang'd  the  Turks, 
That  their  designment  halts  :  A  noble  ship  of 

Venice 
Hath  seen  a  grievous  wrack  *>  and  sufierance 
On  most  part  of  their  fleet. 

Mon.  How  !  is  this  true? 

3  GeJit.  The  ship  is  here  put  in, 

A  Veronessa  :  Michael  Cassio,'^ 
Lieutenant  to  the  warlike  Moor,  Otliello, 
Is  come  on  shore:  the  Moor  himself  "s  at  sea, 
And  is  in  full  commission  here  for  Cyprus. 

Mon.  I  am  glad  on't;  'tis  a  worthy  governor. 

3  Gent.  But  this  same    Cassio, — though  he 
speak  of  comfort. 
Touching  the  Turkish  loss, — yet  he  looks  sadly. 
And  prays  the  Moor  be  safe;  for  they  were  pai'ted 
Witli  fold  and  violent  tempest. 

Mo7i.  'Pray  heaven  he  be; 

For  I  have  serv'd  him,  and  the  man  commands 
Like  a  full  soldier.    Let's  to  the  sea-side, — hoa! 
As  well  to  see  the  vessel  that's  come  in 
As  to  throw  out  our  eyes  for  brave  Othello; 
Even  till  we  make  the  main,  and  the  aerial  blue. 
An  indistinct  regard. 

3  Gent.  Come,  let's  do  so. 

For  every  minute  is  expectancy 
Of  more  arrivaucy. 

Enter  Cassio. 
Cas.  Thanks,  you  the  valiant  of  the  warlike 
isle,'^ 

Job  is  the  war-horse,  "  who  swalloweth  tlie  ground  with 
fierceness  and  rage  ;"  and  when  Sliakspere  pictured  to  him- 
self liis  mane  wildly  streaming,  "  when  the  quiver  rattleth 
against  him,  the  glittering  spe.ar  and  the  shield,"  he  saw  an 
image  of  the  fury  of  "  the  wind-shak'd  surge,"  and  of  its 
very  form;  and  lie  painted  it  "with  high  and  monstrous 
mane." 

»  Lads.    The  quarto,  lords. 

^  JFrach.  Mr.  Hunter  ij  Disquisition  on  the  Tempest') 
has  with  great  propriety  suggested  the  restoration  of  the  old 
word  wrack  to  Shakspere's  text  instead  of  wreck.  He  ob- 
serves that  we  still  use  the  familiar  phrase  "  wrack  and 
ruin;"  and  he  asks,  upon  ttie  principle  of  substituting 
wrerk,  what  we  are  to  do  with  this  couplet  of  Lucrece : — 
"  O  this  dread  night,  would'st  thou  one  hour  come  back, 
I  could  prevent  this  storm,  and  shun  thy  wrack?" 

'  See  note  on  Act  i.,  Sc.  i. 

^  The  reading  of  the  quarto  is, — 

"  Thanks  to  the  valiant  of  this  worthy  isle." 

The  modern  editors  give  us  a  mixed  reading 

TRAOEPrFS.— Vol..  I.  2N 


Tliat  so  approve  the  Moor!  O,  let  the  heavens 
Give  him  defence  against  the  elements, 
For  I  have  lost  him  on  a  dangerous  seal 

Mon.  Is  he  well  shipp'd? 

Cas.  His  bark  is  stoutly  timber'd,  and  his 
pilot 
Of  very  expert  and  approv'd  allowance; 
Therefore  my  hopes,  not  surfeited  to  death. 
Stand  in  bold  cure.* 

\_JVithin.']  A  sail,  a  sail,  a  sail! 

Enter  another  Gentleman. 

Cas.  What  noise  ? 

4  Ge?it.  The  town  is  empty;  on  the  brow  o' 
the  sea 
Stand  ranks  of  people,  and  they  cry — a  sail. 
Cas.  My  hopes  do  shape  him  for  the  governor. 
2   Ge7it.    They   do   discharge   their   shot   of 
coiu-tesy:  \_Guns  heard. 

Our  friends,  at  least. 

Cas.  I  pray  you,  sir,  go  forth, 

And  give  us  truth  who  'tis  that  is  arriv'd. 

2  Gent.  I  shall.  [Exit. 

Mon.  But,  good  lieutenant,  is  your  general 

wiv'd 
Cas.  Most  fortunately :    he  hath  achiev'd  a 
maid 
That  paragons  description  and  wild  fame ; 
One  that  excels  the  quirks  of  blazoning  pens. 
And  in  the  essential  vesture  of  creation 
Does  tire   the  ingener.** — How  now?   who  has 
put  in? 

Re-enter  Second  Gentleman. 
2  Gent.  'Tis  one  lago,  ancient  to  the  general. 
Cas.  He  has  had  most  favourable  and  happy 
speed : 
Tempests  themselves,  high  seas,  and  howling 

winds. 
The  gutter'd  rocks,  and  congregated  sands, 

•  Dr.  Johnson  proposed  to  alter  this  passage,  saying  that 
he  could  not  understand  "  how  hope  can  be  surfeited  to  death, 
that  is,  can  be  increased  till  it  be  destroyed."  As  "hope 
deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick,"  so  hope  upon  hope,  withoiit 
realization,  is  a  surfeit  of  hope,  and  extinguishes  hope.  Ciissio 
had  some  reasonable  tacts  to  prevent  his  hope  being  "  sur- 
feited to  death." 

^  Sotliefolio.  The  quarto  reads,  "  Does  hear  all  e.rcellency." 
The  modern  editors,  altliougli  they  have  not  adopted  the  dif- 
ficult reading  of  the  folio,  acknowledge  that  the  reading  of  the 
quarto  is  flat  and  unpoelical  when  compared  with  that  sense 
wliich  seems  meant  to  have  been  given  in  the  folio.  Johnson 
boldly  says  that  the  reading  of  the  folio  is  the  best  reading, 
and  that  tvhich  the  author  substituted  in  his  revisal.  The  text 
of  the  folio  presents  no  difficulty  when  we  understand  the 
wovAingener.  The  word  engine  is  so  called  "because  nut 
made  without  great  effort  (ingeniij  of  genius,  of  ingenuity, 
of  contrivance." — (Kichardson.)  The  ingener,  then,  istlie 
contriver  by  ingenuity— the  designer— and  here  applied  to  a 
poet  is  almost  literally  the  Greek  Xloi'/iryis— maker .  Da- 
niell  uses  the  word  ingeniate  in  the  sense  of  tu  contrive;  Ken 
Jonson,  ingine  for  understanding. 

277 


AOT    II.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  I. 


Ti'aitors  ensteep'd*  to  enclog  the  guiltless  keel, 
As  having  sense  of  beauty  do  omit 
Their  mortal''  natures,  letting  go  safely  by 
The  divine  Desdemona. 

Mon.  What  is  she  ? 

Cas.  She  that  I  spake  of,  our  great  captain's 

captain, 
Left  in  the  conduct  of  the  bold  lago; 
Whose  footing  here  anticipates  our  thoughts, 
A    se'nnight's     speed. — Great    Jove,    Othello 

guard. 
And   swell  his   sail   with  thine   own  powei'ful 

breath ; 
That  he  may  bless  this  bay  with  his  tall  ship. 
Make  love's  quick  pants  in  Desdemona's  arms,<^ 
Give  renew'd  fire  to  our  extincted  spirits, 
[And  bring  all  Cyprus  comfort!]  "^ — O,  behold. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Emilia,  Iago,  Roderigo, 
and  Attendants. 

The  riches  of  the  ship  is  •=  come  on  shore! 
You  men  of  Cyprus,  let  her  have  your  knees: 
Hail  to  thee,  lady!  and  the  grace  of  heaven, 
Befoi'e,  behind  thee,  and  on  evei'y  hand, 
Enwheel  thee  round ! 

Des.  I  thank  you,  valiant  Cassio. 

What  tidings  can  you  tell  me  of  my  lord? 

Cas.  He  is  not  yet  arriv'd ;  nor  know  I  aught 
But  that  he's  well,  and  will  be  shortly  here. 

Des.  O,  but  I  fear — How  lost  you  company? 

Cas.  The  great   contention   of  the   sea   and 
skies 
Parted  our  fellowship :   But  hark !  a  sail. 

\^Cry  within,  A  sail!  a  sail!   Then  guns  heard. 

2  Gent.  Theygive  their  greeting  to  tlie  citadel; 
This  likewise  is  a  friend. 

Cos,  See  for  the  news. — 

SJExit  Gentleman. 
Good  ancient,    you  are   welcome; — Welcome, 
mistress: —  [7o  Emilia. 

Let  it  not  gall  your  patience,  good  Iago, 
That  I  extend  my  manners ;   'tis  my  breeding 
That  gives  me  this  bold  show  of  courtesy. 

\Kissing  her. 

»  Ensfeep'd.    Steevens  here  complains  of  the  confusion  of 
Sliakspere's  metaphorical  expressions.     But  what  confusion 
is  here?     KocUs  and  sands  are  beneath  the  water,  as  the  cri- 
tic might  have  learned  from  Gay's  ballad;  and  what  is  be- 
neatli  the  water  is  steep'd  in  the  water.     The   identical  word 
tliiui  applied  is  in  Spenser  (Fairy  Queen,  B.  i.  C.  ii.)  : — 
"  Now  'gan  the  golden  Phoebus  for  tu  steep 
His  fiery  face  in  billows  of  the  west." 
*•  Mortal.  Deadly. 

■=  The  editors  have  for  once  adopted  an  improved  line  fiom 
the  folio.     The  quarto  has, — 

"  And  swiftly  come  to  Desdemona's  arms." 
■•  The  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 
'  Riches  is  used  as  a  singular  noun  in  the  87th  Sonnet. 
"  And  for  that  riches  where  is  ray  deserving. 

278 


Iago.  Sir,  would  she  give  you  so  much  of  her 
lips 
As  of  her  tongue  she  oft  bestows  on  me, 
You'd  have  enough, 

Des.  Alas,  she  has  no  speech. 

Iago.  In  faith,  too  much; 
I  find  it  still  when  I  have  list  to  sleep : 
Marry,  before  your  ladyship,  I  grant 
She  puts  her  tongue  a  little  in  her  heart. 
And  chides  with  thinking. 

Emil.  You  have  little  cause  to  say  so. 

Iago.  Come  on,  come  on:  you  are  pictures 
out  of  door  ; 
Bells  in  your  parlours ;  wild  cats  in  your  kitchens ; 
Saints  in  your  injuries ;  devils  being  offended; 
Players  in  your  huswifery ;  and  huswives  in  your 
beds.* 

Des.  O,  fye  upon  thee,  slanderer! 

Iago.   Nay,  it  is  true,  or  else  I  am  a  Turk; 
You  rise  to  play,  and  go  to  bed  to  work, 

Emil.  You  shall  not  write  my  praise. 

Iago.  No,  let  me  not. 

Des.    What   would'st   write   of  me    if  thou 
should'st  praise  me  ? 

Iago.  O  gentle  lady,  do  not  put  me  to't; 
For  I  am  nothing  if  not  critical. 

Des.  Come  on,  assay : — There's  one  gone  to 
the  harbour? 

Iago.  Ay,  madam. 

Des.  I  am  not  merry;  but  I  do  beguile 
The  thing  I  am,  by  seeming  otherwise. 
Come,  how  would'st  thou  praise  me? 

Iago.  lamaboutit;  but,  indeed,  my  invention 
Comes  fi'om  my  pate  as  birdlime  does  from  frize, — 
It  plucks  out  brains  and  all :  But  my  muse  labours, 
And  thus  she  is  deliver'd.  ** 
If  she  be  fair  and  wise, — fairness,  and  wit. 
The  one's  for  use,  the  other  useth  it. 

Des.  Well   prais'd!   How  if  she  be  black  and 
witty? 

Iago.  If  she  be  black,  and  thereto  have  a  wit. 
She'll  find  a  white  that  shall  her  blackness  fit. 

Des.  Worse  and  worse. 

Emil.  How,  if  fair  and  foolish  ? 

Iago.  She  never  yet  was  foolish  that  was  fair: 
For  even  her  folly  help'd  her  to  an  heir. 

Des.  These  are  old  fond  paradoxes,  to  make 
fools  laugh  i'  the  alehouse.  What  miserable 
praise  hast  thou  for  her  that's  foul  and  foolish? 

Iago.  There's  none  so  foul,  and  foolish  there- 
unto, 

'  These  lines  are  printed  as  prose  in  the  folio,  but  are  ar- 
ranged as  we  give  them  in  the  quarto.  The  sentiments  are  an 
amplification  of  some  proverbial  slanders  which  were  current 
in  Shakspere's  day. 

••  These  lines  are  also  printed  as  prose  in  the  folio. 


Act  II.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Sc 


But    does  foul    pranks    which    fair    and    wise 
ones  do. 

Des.  O  lieavy  ignorance! — thou  praiscst  the 
worst  best.  But  what  praise  couki'st  thou  be- 
stow on  a  deserving  woman  indeed  ?  one,  tliat, 
in  the  authority  of  her  merit,  did  justly  put  on 
the  vouch  of  very  malice  itself  ? 

lago.  She  that  was  ever  fair,  and  never  proud; 
Had  tongue  at  will,  and  yet  was  never  loud; 
Never  lack'd  gold,  and  yet  went  never  gay; 
Fled  from  her  wish,  and  yet  said, — now  I  may  ; 
She  that,  being  anger'd,  her  revenge  being  nigh, 
Bade  her  wrong  stay  and  her  displeasure  fly ; 
She  that  in  wisdom  never  was  so  frail. 
To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon's  tail;  ^ 
She  that   could  think,   and  ne'er  disclose  her 

mind. 
See  suitors  following,  and  not  look  behind; 
She  was  a  wight,  if  ever  such  wights  ^  were, 

Des.  To  do  what? 

lago.  To  suckle  fools,  and  chronicle  small  beer. 

Des.  O  most  lame  and  impotent  conclusion ! — 
Do  not  learn  of  him,  Emilia,  though  he  be  thy 
husband. — How  say  you,  Cassio?  is  he  not  a 
most  profane  and  liberal*^  counsellor? 

Cas.  He  speaks  home,  madam ;  you  may  re- 
lish him  more  in  the  soldier  than  in  the  scholar. 

lago.  \_Aside.~\  He  takes  her  by  the  palm  : 
Ay,  well  said,  whisper :  with  as  little  a  web  as 
this  will  I  ensnare  as  great  a  fly  as  Cassio.  Ay, 
smile  upon  her,  do ;  I  will  gyve  thee  in  thine 
own  courtship."*  You  say  true ;  'tis  so,  indeed : 
if  such  tricks  as  these  strip  you  out  of  your 
lieutenantry,  it  had  been  better  you  had  not 
kissed  your  three  fingers  so  oft,  which  now 
again  you  are  most  apt  to  play  the  sir  in.  Very 
good!  well  kissed,  and  excellent  courtesy !<=  'tis 
so,  indeed.  Yet  again  your  fingers  to  your  lips? 
would,  they  were  clyster-pipes  for  yoiu-  sake  ! — 
[  Trumpet.']  The  Moor,  I  know  his  trumpet. 

Cas.  'Tis  truly  so. 

Des.  Let's  meet  him,  and  receive  him. 

Cas.  Lo,  where  he  comes ! 


•  "  To  change  the  cod's  head  for  the  salmon's  tail  "  is  to 
exchange  the  more  delicate  fare  for  the  coarser.  In  the 
household-book  of  Queen  Elizabeth  it  is  directed  tliat  "  tlie 
master  cooI<s  shall  have  to  fee  all  the  salmon's  tails." 

••  TViglits.     The  quarto,  wight. 

'  Liberal — licentious. 

■J  The  quarto  reads,  /  will  catch  you  in  your  own  courtesies. 
Courtship  is  used  for  p.aying  courtesies,  as  in  Richard  II. — 
"  Observ'd  his  courtship  to  the  common  people." 

«  Courtesy.  Johnson  has  an  extraordinary  note  upon 
this: — "  Spoken  when  Cassio  kisses  his  hand,  and  Desde- 
mona  comtsies."  A  courtesy,  courtsy,  curtsy,  was  anciently 
used  for  auy  courteous  mode  of  demeanour,  aud  not,  as  John- 
son receives  it,  as  exclusively  a  female  action.  But  he  was 
betrayed  iuto  this  mistake  by  the  reading  of  the  quarto— 
'•Well  kiss'dl  an  exceWent  courtesy ;"  which  reading  he  is 
said  to  have  "  recovered." 


Enter  Othello,  and  Attendants. 

Ofh.  O  my  fair  warrior! ' 

Des.  My  dear  Othello! 

Ot/i.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content, 
To  see  you  here  before  me.     O  my  soul's  joy! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms. 
May  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd  death! 
And  let  the  labouring  bark  climb  hills  of  seas, 
Olympus-high ;  and  duck  again  as  low 
As  hell  's  from  heaven!  If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy;  for,  I  fear 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute, 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  luiknown  fate. 

Des.  The  heavens  forbid 

But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase, 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow! 

0th.  Amen  to  that,  sweet  powers! — 

I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content, 
It  stops  me  here  ;  it  is  too  much  of  joy  ; 
And  this,  and  this,  the  greatest  discords  be 

\_Kiss'mg  her. 
That  e'er  our  hearts  shall  make ! 

lago.  O,  you  are  well  tun'd  now  ! 

But  I'll  set  down  the  pegs'"  that  make  this  music. 
As  honest  as  I  am.  \_Aside. 

0th.  Come ;  let  us  to  the  castle. — 

News,  friends;  our  wars  are  done,  the  Turks  are 

drown'd. 
How  does  my  old  acquaintance  of  this  isle?"^ 
Honey,  you  shall  be  well  desir'd  in  Cyprus, 
I  have  found  great  love  amongst  them.     O  my 

sweet, 
I  prattle  out  of  fashion,  and  I  dote 
In  mine  own  comforts. — I  prithee,  good  lago. 
Go  to  the  bay,  and  disembark  my  coff'ers : 
Bring  thou  the  master  to  the  citadel ; 
He  is  a  good  one,  and  his  worthiness 
Does  challenge  much  respect. — Come,  Desde- 

mona, 
Once  more  well  met  at  Cyprus. 

\_Exeunt  0th.  Des.  and  Attend. 

•  The  term  warrior  applied  to  a  lady  is  somewhat  startling. 
In  the  third  act  Desdemona  s.iys  of  herself,  "  Unhandsome 
warrior  that  I  am."  Stee\ens  says  that  it  was  a  terra  of 
endearment  which  we  derive  from  tlie  old  French  poets,  and 
that  Ronsard,  in  his  sonnets,  frequently  calls  the  ladies 
gnerrieres.  But  we  cannot  avoid  thinking  that  Othello  play- 
fully salutes  his  wife  as  a  warrior,  in  compliment  to  her  re- 
solution not  to — 

■ "  be  left  behind, 

A  moth  of  peace,  and  he  go  to  the  war." 
When  Desdemona  repeats  the  word  in  the  third  act,  the  name 
which  her  husband  has  given  her  may,  in  the  same  manner, 
be  floating  in  her  memory.     We  have  no  parallel  use  of  the 
word  in  Shakspere. 

^  Set  down.  In  some  modern  editions  this  is  let  down, 
which  is  certainly  the  meaning  of  set  down. 

"  The  quarto  reads — 

"  How  do,  our  old  acquaintance  of  the  isle?" 
In  the  folio  acquaintance  is  used  in  the  singular  as  a  noun  of 
multitude. 

279 


Act  II.] 


OTHELLO. 


rScENE  1. 


lago.  Do  thou  meet  me  presently  at  the  har- 
bour.    Come  thither.*     If  thou  be'st  valiant,  (as 
they  say,  base  men  being  in  love  have  then  a 
nobility  in  their  natures  more  than  is  native  to 
them,)  list  me.    The  lieutenant  to-night  watches 
on  the  court  of  guard : — First,  I  must  tell  thee 
this — Desdemona  is  directly  in  love  with  him. 
Rod.  With  him !  why,  'tis  not  possible. 
lago.  Lay  thy  finger — thus,  and  let  thy  soul 
be  instructed.     Mai-k  me  with  what  violence  she 
first  loved  the  Moor,  but  for  bragging  and  tell- 
ing her  fantastical  lies :  To  love  him  still  for 
prating,  let  not  thy  discreet  heart  think  it.**    Her 
eye  must  be   fed;  and  what  delight  shall  she 
have  to  look  on  the  devil  1     When  the  blood  is 
made  dull  with  the  act  of  sport,  there  should  be, 
again  to  inflame  it  and  to  give  satiety  a  fresh 
appetite,  loveliness  in  favour;  sympathy  in  years, 
manners,  and  beauties ;  all  which  the  Moor  is 
defective  in  :  Now,  for  want  of  these  required 
conveniences,  her  delicate  tenderness  will  find 
itself  abused,  begin  to  heave  the  gorge,  disrelish 
and  abhor  the  Moor ;  very  nature  will  instruct 
her  in  it,  and  compel  her  to  some  second  choice. 
Now,  sir,  this  granted,  (as  it  is  a  most  pregnant 
and  unforced  position,)  who  stands  so  eminent 
in  the  degree  of  this  fortune  as  Cassio  does ; — 
a  knave  very  voluble;  no  further  conscionable 
than  in  putting  on  the  mere  form  of  civil  and 
humane  seeming,  for  the  better  compassing  of 
his  salt  and  most  hidden  loose  affection  ?  why, 
none ;  why,  none ;  A  slipper  and  subtle  knave  ;<= 
a   finder   of  occasions ;    that  has    an  eye   can 
stamp  and  counterfeit  advantages,  though  true 
advantage  never  present  itself:  A  devilish  knave ! 
besides,  the  knave  is   handsome,   young;    and 
hath  all  those  requisites  in  him  that  folly  and 
green  minds  look  after:    A  pestilent  complete 
knave  ;  and  the  woman  hath  found  him  already. 
Rod.  I  cannot  believe  that  in  her;  she  is  full 
of  most  bless'd  condition. 

lago.  Bless'd  fig's  end !  the  wine  she  drinks 
is  made  of  grapes  :  if  she  had  been  bless'd,  she 
would  never  have  loved  the  Moor  :  Bless'd  pud- 
ding! Didst  thou  not  see  her  paddle  with  the 
jialm  of  his  hand  ?  didst  not  mark  that  ? 

Rod.  Yes,  that  I  did;  but  that  was  but  coui'- 

tesy. 
lago.  Lechery,  by  this  hand  ;  an     index  and 
obscure  prologue  to  the  history  of  lust  and  foul 


>  Thither.    Tlie  quarto  reads  hither. 

^  The  quarto  reads.  And  ivill  she  luve  him  still  for  prating? 

"  The  quarto  reads,  "  A  S'ibtle  slippery  hnave"  which  the 
odilors  change  into  n  slippery  and  subtle  knave.  Why,  when 
tlu-y  followed  the  fulio  in  the  arrangement  of  the  words, 
could  thc7  not  have  retained  the  line  old  ati,jective  slipper}' 

2S0 


thoughts.  They  met  so  near  with  their  lips  that 
their  breaths  embraced  together.  Villanous 
thoughts,  Roderigo!  When  these  mutualities  so 
marshal  the  way,  hard  at  hand  comes  the  master 
and  main  exercise,  the  incorporate  conclusion: 
Pish! — But,  sir,  be  you  ruled  by  me:  I  have 
brought  you  from  Venice.  Watch  you  to-night; 
for  the  command,  I'll  lay't  upon  you:  Cassio 
knows  you  not; — 111  not  be  far  from  you:  Do 
you  find  some  occasion  to  anger  Cassio,  either 
by  speaking  too  loud,  or  tainting  his  discipline, 
or  from  what  other  course  you  please,  which  the 
time  shall  more  favourably  minister. 
Rod.  Well. 

lago.  Sir,  he  's  rash,  and  very  sudden  in 
choler ;  and,  haply,*  may  strike  at  you  :  Provoke 
him  that  he  may :  for  even  out  of  that  will  I  cause 
these  of  Cyprus  to  mutiny ;  whose  qualification 
shall  come  into  no  true  taste  again,  but  by  the 
displanting  of  Cassio.  So  shall  you  have  a 
shorter  journey  to  your  desires,  by  the  means  I 
shall  then  have  to  prefer  them  ;  and  the  impedi- 
ment most  profitably  removed,  without  the  which 
there  were  no  expectation  of  our  prosperity. 

Rod.  I  will  do  this,  if  you  can  bring  it  to  any 
opportunity.'' 

lago.  I  war-rant  thee.  Meet  me  by  and  by  at 
the  citadel.  I  must  fetch  his  necessaries  ashore. 
Farewell. 

Rod.  Adieu.  [Exit, 

lago.  That  Cassio  loves  her,  I  do  well  believe 
it; 
That  she  loves  him,  'tis  apt,  and  of  great  credit : 
The  Moor — howbeit  that  I  endure  him  not, — 
Is  of  a  constant,  loving,  noble  nature; 
And,  I  dare  think,  he'll  prove  to  Desdemona 
A  most  dear  husband.     Now  I  do  love  her  too ; 
Not  out  of  absolute  lust,  (though,  peradventure, 
I  stand  accountant  for  as  great  a  sin,) 
But  partly  led  to  diet  my  revenge. 
For  that  I  do  suspect  the  lusty  Moor 
Hath  leap'd  into  my  seat :  the  thought  whereof 
Doth,  like  a  poisonous  mineral,  gnaw  my  inwards ; 
And  nothing  can  or  shall  content  my  soul, 
Till  I  am  eveu'd*^  with  him,  wife  for  wife ; 
Or,  failing  so,  yet  that  I  put  the  Moor 
At  least  into  a  jealousy  so  strong 
That  judgment  cannot  cure.     Which  thing  to 
do, — 


>  We  find  in  the  quarto,  "  Haply  with  his  truncheon  may 
strike  iit  you. 

ij  The  quai-to  reads,  "  If  /  can  bring  it  to  any  opportunity." 
But  Roderigo  is  not  one  of  those  who  relies  upon  himself; 
and  the  reading  of  the  folio,  "  If  you  can  bring  it  to  any  op- 
portunity," is  tar  more  characteristic.  lago  replies  to  this 
expression  of  reliance  upon  him,  "  I  warrant  thee." 

•  Even'd.     The  quarto,  even. 


Act  no 


OTHELLO. 


[Scenes  II.  III. 


If  this  poor  trash  of  Venice,  wliom  I  trace" 
For  liis  quick  luinting,  stand  the  patting  on, 
I'll  have  our  Michael  Cassio  on  the  hip  ; 
Abuse  him  to  the  Moor  in  the  right''  garb, — 
For  I  fear  Cassio  with  my  night-cap  too ; 
Make  the  Moor  thank  me,  love  me,  and  reward 

me, 
For  making  him  egregiously  an  ass, 
And  practising  upon  his  peace  and  quiet 
Even  to  madness.     'Tis  here,  but  yet  confus'd ; 
Knavei-y's  plain  ftice  is  never  seen  till  us'd. 

lExit. 
SCENE  U.— J  Street. 

Enter  a  Herald,  with  a  lyroclamation  ;  Peojile 
following. 

Her.  It  is  Othello's  pleasure,  our  noble  and 
valiaTit  general,  tliat,  upon  certain  tidings  now 
arrived,  importing  the  mere  •=  perdition  of  the 
Tvu-kish  fleet,  every  man  put  himself  into  tri- 
imiph:  some  to  dance,  some  to  make  bonfires, 
each  man  to  what  sport  and  revels  his  addiction 
leads  him  ;  for,  besides  these  beneficial  news,  it 
is  the  celebration  of  his  nuptial  i"^  So  much  was 
his  pleasure  should  be  proclaimed.  All  offices 
are  open ;  and  there  is  full  liberty  of  feasting, 
from  this  present  hour  of  five  till  the  bell  have 
told  eleven.  Bless  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  and  our 
noble  general,  Othello  I  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— ^  Hall  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Othello,  Desdemona,  Cassio,  a7id 
Attendants. 

Olh.  Good  Michael,  look  you  to  the  guard  to- 
night : 
Let's  teach  ourselves  that  honourable  stop. 
Not  to  out-sport  discretion. 

Cas.  lago  hath  direction  what  to  do  ; 
But,  notwithstanding,  with  my  personal  eye 
Will  I  look  to't. 

Olh.  lago  is  most  honest. 

■  The  reading  of  the  quarto  is, — 

"  If  this  poor  trash  of  Venice,  whom  I  crush 
For  liis  quick  hunting." 
Crush  is  evidently  a  corruption,  and  is  properly  rejected. 
But  why  do  the  commentators  reject  the  trace  of  tlie  folio, 
substituting  irns/i?  because  they  say  hace  is  a  corruption  of 
trash.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  the  noun  trash,  and  the  verb 
trace,  are  used  with  perfect  propriety.  The  trash  is  the  thing 
traced,  put  in  traces — confined — as  an  untrained  worthless  dog 
is  lield,  and  hence  the  present  meanini'  of  trash.  There  is  a 
letter  on  this  subject  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1763, 
which  satisfactorily  establishes  the  propriety  of  the  word 
trace. 

>>  Right.  The  quarto,  canft. 

'  Mere — entire. 

^  Kiiptial.  The  quarto,  n»pfm/s.  The  modern  editors  in 
adopting  nuptials  have  departed  from  the  usual  phrase  of 
Shaksperc;  as,  in  Much  Ado  alwut  Nothing,  "This  looks 
not  like  a  nuptial." 


Michael,   good  night:    To-morrow,  with  your 

earliest,* 
Let  me  have  speech  with  you. — Come,  my  dear 

love. 
The  purchase  made,  the  fruits  are  to  ensue ; 

[To  Desdemona. 
That  profit's  yet  to  come  'tween  me  and  you. — 
Good  night.        \_Exeunt  0th.  Des.  and  Attend. 

Enter  Iago. 

Cas.  Welcome,  lago  :  We  must  to  the  watch. 

Iago.  Not  this  hour,  lieutenant ;  'tis  not  yet 
ten  o'  th'  clock  :  Our  general  cast  us  thus  early 
for  the  love  of  his  Desdemona,  whom  let  us  not 
therefore  blame  :  he  hath  not  yet  made  wanton 
the  night  with  her ;  and  she  is  sport  for  Jove. 

Cas.  She's  a  most  exquisite  lady. 

Iago.  And,  I'll  waiTant  her,  full  of  game. 

Cas.  Indeed,  she  is  a  most  fresh  and  delicate 
creature. 

Iago.  What  an  eye  she  has!  methinks  it 
sounds  a  parley  to  provocation. 

Cas.  An  inviting  eye  ;  and  yet  methinks  right 
modest. 

Iago.  And  when  she  speaks  is  it  not  an  alarum 
to  love  ? 

Cas.  She  is,  indeed,  perfection. 

Iago.  Well,  happiness  to  their  sheets  !  Come, 
lieutenant,  I  have  a  stoop  of  wine  :  and  here 
without  are  a  brace  of  Cyprus  gallants,  that 
would  fain  have  a  measure  to  the  health  of  black 
Othello. 

Cas.  Not  to-night,  good  Iago ;  I  have  very 
poor  and  unhappy  brains  for  drinking  :  I  could 
well  wish  courtesy  woidd  invent  some  other 
custom  of  entertainment. 

Iago.  O,  they  are  our  friends  ;  but  one  cup  ; 
I'll  drink  for  you. 

Cas.  I  have  drunk  but  one  cup  to-night,  and 
that  was  craftily  qualified  too, — and,  behold, 
what  innovation  it  makes  here  :  I  am  imfortu- 
nate  in  the  infirmity,  and  dare  not  task  my 
weakness  with  any  more. 

Iago.  What,  man  !  'tis  a  night  of  revels ;  the 
gallants  desire  it. 

Cas.  Where  are  they  ? 

Iago.  Here   at   the  door;    I   pray   you   call 

them  in. 
Cas.  I'll  do  't;  but  it  dislikes  me. 

\_Exit  Cassio. 
Iago.  If  I  can  fasten  but  one  cup  upon  him, 
With  that  which  he  hath  drunk  to-night  already, 

^  TVith  your  earliest.  The  quarto  and  folio  both  read  yotir 
earliest,  yet  in  all  modern  editions  we  find  ohi- earliest.  It  is 
scarcely  worth  while  to  trace  where  this  corruption  origin 
ated.     We  find  it  e^•erywlleTe,  unexplained  and  undefended. 

281 


Act  H.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNE    III. 


He'll  be  as  full  of  quarrel  and  offence 

As  my  young  mistress'  dog.    Now,  my  sick  fool, 

Roderigo, 
Whom  love  has  turn'd  almost  the  wrong  side  out,* 
To  Desdemona  hath  to-night  carous'd 
Potations  pottle  deep  ;  and  he's  to  watch  : 
Three  else ''  of  Cyprus, — noble  swelling  spirits, 
That  hold  their  honours  in  a  wary  distance, 
The  very  elements  of  this  warlike  isle, — 
Have  I  to-night  fluster'd  with  flowing  cups. 
And  they  watch  too.     Now,  'mongst  this  flock 

of  drunkards. 
Am  I  to  put  our  Cassio  in  some  action 
That  may  offend  the  isle  : — But  here  they  come  : 
If  consequence  do  but  approve  my  dream, 
My  boat  sails  freely,  both  with  wind  and  stream. 

Re-enter  Cassio,  with  liim  Montano,  and 
Gentlemen. 

Can.  'Fore  heaven,  they  have  given  me  a 
rouse  already. 

Mon.  Good  faith,  a  little  one;  not  past  a  pint, 
as  I  am  a  soldier. 

lago.  Some  wine,  hoa ! 

And  let  me  the  eanakin  clink,  clink,  [Sings. 

And  let  me  the  eanakin  clink  : 

A  soldier's  a  man  ;  O  man's  life's  but  a  span  ;" 
Wliy  then  let  a  soldier  drink. 

Some  wine,  boys  !  [  Wine  brought  in. 

Cas.  'Fore  heaven,  an  excellent  song. 

lago.  I  learned  it  in  England,  where  indeed] 
they  are  most  potent  in  potting :  your  Dane,  your 
German,  and  your  swag-bellied  Hollander, — 
Drink,  hoa ! — are  nothing  to  your  English. 

Cas.  Is  your  Englishman  so  exquisite"^  in  his 
drinking  ? 

lago.  Why,  he  drinks  you,  with  facility,  your 
Dane  dead  drunk ;  he  sweats  not  to  overthrow 
your  Almain  ;  he  gives  your  Hollander  a  vomit, 
ere  the  next  pottle  can  be  filled. 

Cas.  To  the  health  of  our  general. 

Mon.  I  am  for  it,  lieutenant;  and  I'll  do  you 
justice. 

lago.  O  sweet  England ! 

King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer,  2   . 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crown ; 
He  lield  them  sixpence  all  too  dear, 

Witli  that  he  call'd  tlie  tailor  lown. 
He  was  a  wight  of  hi^>li  renown. 

And  thou  art  but  ol  low  degree  : 
'Tis  pride  that  pulls  the  country  down. 

And  take  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee." 

Some  wine,  hoa ! 

•  Out.    The  quarto,  outward. 

^  Else.     The  quarlo,  lads. 

"  The  quarto  reads,  "  A  life's  but  a  spdn." 

'^  Exquisite.    The  quarto,  expert. 

"■  Tlie  quarto, — 

"  Then  taket/iine  auld  cloak  about  tliec." 
282 


Cas.  Why  this  is  a  more  exquisite  song  than 
the  other. 

lago.  Will  you  hear  it  again  ? 

Cas.  No ;  for  I  hold  him  to  be  unworthy  of 
his  place  that  does  those  things. — Well, — Hea- 
ven's above  all ;  and  there  be  souls  must  be 
saved,  and  there  be  souls  must  not  be  saved.* 

lago.  It's  true,  good  lieutenant. 

Cas.  For  mine  own  part, — no  offence  to  the 
general,  nor  any  man  of  quality, — I  hope  to  be 
saved. 

lago.  And  so  do  I  too,  lieutenant. 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  by  your  leave,  not  before  me  ; 
the  lieutenant  is  to  be  saved  before  the  ancient. 
Let's  have  no  more  of  this :  let's  to  our  affairs. 
— Forgive  us  our  sins  ! — Gentlemen,  let's  look 
to  our  business.  Do  not  think,  gentlemen,  I  am 
drunk :  this  is  my  ancient ; — this  is  my  right 
hand,  and  this  is  my  left : — I  am  not  drunk  now ; 
I  can  stand  well  enough,  and  I  speak  well 
enough. 

All.  Excellent  well. 

Cas.  Wliy,  very  well  then:  you  must  not 
think  then  that  I  am  drunk.  [^Exit. 

Mon.  To  the  platform,  masters;  come,  let's 
set  the  watch. 

lago.  You  see  this  fellow  that  is  gone  before ; — 
He  is  a  soldier  fit  to  stand  by  Csesar 
And  give  direction  :  and  do  but  see  his  vice  ; 
'Tis  to  his  virtue  a  just  equinox. 
The  one  as  long  as  the  other  :  'tis  pity  of  him. 
I  fear,  the  trust  Othello  puts  him  in, 
On  some  odd  time  of  his  infirmity. 
Will  shake  this  island. 

Mon.  But  is  he  often  thus  1 

lago.  'Tis  evermore  his  prologue  to  his  sleep : 
He'll  watch  the  horologe  a  double  set,  ^ 
If  drink  rock  not  his  cradle. 

Mon.  It  Avere  well 

The  general  were  put  in  mind  of  it. 
Perhaps  he  sees  it  not ;  or  his  good  nature 
Prizes  the  virtue  that  appears  in  Cassio, 
And  looks  not  on  his  evils.     Is  not  this  true  ? 


Enter  Roderigo. 


l^Aside. 


lago.  How,  now,  Roderigo  ? 
I  pray  you,  after  the  lieutenant ;  go. 

\^Exit  Roderigo. 

Mo7i.  And  'tis  great  pity,  that  the  noble  Moor 
Should  hazard  such  a  place,  as  his  own  second, 

«  The  quarto  omits  "  And  tliere  be  souls  must  not  be 
saved."  The  editors  are  not  content  to  adopt  the  folio,  Ijut 
thrust  in  the  word  that  in  the  first  member  of  tlie  sentence. 

•>  Shakspere  here  adopts  tlie  Enjilish  division  of  time,  in 
which  the  day  is  divided  into  two  portions  of  twelve  hours 
each,  "  the  double  set"  of  the  horologe. 


ACT  II.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNE  III. 


With  one  of  an  ingraft  infirmity  :  | 

It  were  an  honest  action,  to  say  so 
To  the  Moor. 

lago.  Not  I,  for  this  fair  island  : 

I  do  love  Cassio  well,  and  would  do  much 
To   ciu'e  him  of    this  evil.      But  hark  !    what 
noise  ?'' 

Enter  Cassio,  pursuhig  Roderigo. 

Cas.  You  rogue  !  you  rascal ! 

Afon.  AVhat's  the  matter,  lieutenant? 

Cas.  A  knave ! — teach  me  my  duty  ! 
I'll  beat  the  knave  into  a  twiggen  bottle.** 

Rod.  Beat  me  ! 

Cas.  Dost  thou  prate,  rogue? 

\_Strildng  Roderigo. 

Mo7i.  Nay,  good  lieutenant ; 

[^Staying  him. 
I  pray  you,  sir,  hold  your  hand. 

Cas.  Let  me  go,  sir, 

Or  I'll  knock  you  o'er  the  mazzard. 

Mon.  Come,  come,  you  're  drunk. 

Cas.  Drunk!  \_TlteyfghL 

lago.  Away,  I  say!  go  out,  and  cry — a  mutiny. 
\^Aside  to  Rod.  who  goes  out. 
Nay,  good  lieutenant, — alas,  gentlemen, — 
Help,  hoa! — Lieutenant, — sir  Montano,<= — 
Help,  masters  ! — Here's  a  goodly  watch,  indeed ! 

\_I3ell  rings. 
Who's  that  which  rings  the  bell  ? — Diablo,  hoa ! 
The  town  will  rise  :  Fie,  fie,  lieutenant !  hold ; 
You  '11  be  asham'd  for  ever.'^ 

Enter  Othello,  and  Attendants. 

0th.  What  is  the  matter  here  ? 

Mon.  I  bleed  still ;  I  am  hurt  to  the  death. — 

He  dies — ^ 
0th.  Hold,  for  your  lives. 
J  ago.  Hold,  hoa!  Lieutenant, — sirMontano, — 
gentlemen, — 
Have  you  forgot  all  sense  of  place  and  duty  ? 
Hold!    the   general  speaks   to   you;  hold,    for 
shame  ! 


*  We  here  find  in  the  quarto,  helf,  help  unthinl  as  a  stage 
direction. 

l>  Ta-iggen  bottle.  Tlie  quarto  reads  wicker  bottle,  whieli 
gives  tlie  explanation, 

"  Sir  Muntano.  So  both  the  old  editions,  not  only  here, 
but  in  a  suljsequent  line.  In  all  modern  texts  it  is  given  as 
Sir !  Miintanu !  lago  is  pretendin!»  to  separate  the  lieutenant 
and  Montano,  but  he  is  not  familiar  with  Moutano,  tlie  ex- 
governor,  and  lie  gives  him  a  title  of  courtesy. 

"i  The  quarto,  "you  will  be  sham' d  fur  ever — a  very  dif- 
ferent meaning. 

^  He  dies.  Because  these  words  are  not  found  in  the  quarto, 
the  line  there  being  eked  out  with  zounds!  Malone  supposes 
that  they  were  absurdly  inserted  as  a  stage  direction.  It  is 
evident  that,  although  Montano  fancies  himself  liurt  to  the 
death,  he  is  still  ready  to  attack  Cassio,  as  his  words  express, 
he  dies ! 


0th.    Why,  how   now,    hoa !     from   whence 
ariseth  this? 
Ai'e  we  turn'd  Turks,  and  to  ourselves  do  that 
Which  heaven  hath  forbid  the  Ottomites? 
For  Christian    shame,  put   by   this    barbarous 

brawl : 
He  that  stirs  next  to  carve  for  his  own  rage. 
Holds  his  soul  light ;  he  dies  upon  his  motion. 
Silence  that  dreadful  bell,  it  frights  the  isle 
From  her  propriety. — What  is  the  matter,  mas- 
ters ? — 
Honest  lago,  that  look'st  dead  with  grieving. 
Speak,  who  began  this?  on  thy  love  I  charge 
thee. 
logo.  I  do  not  know ; — friends  all  but  now, 
even  now. 
In  quarter,  and  in  terms  like  bride  and  groom 
Devesting  them  for  bed  :  and  then,  but  now, 
(As  if  some  planet  had  unwitted  men,) 
Swords  out,  and  tilting  one  at  other's  breast" 
In  opposition  bloody.     I  cannot  speak 
Any  beginning  to  this  peevish  odds  ; 
And  'would  in  action  glorious  I  had  lost 
Those  legs  that  brought  me  to  a  part  of  it ! 
0th.  How  comes  it,   Michael,  you  are  thus 

forgot  ? 
Cas.  1  pray  you,  pardon  me,  I  cannot  speak. 
0th.  Worthy  Montano,  you  were  wont  to  be 
civil ; 
The  gravity  and  stillness  of  your  youth 
The  world  hath  noted,  and  your  name  is  great 
In  mouths  of  wisest  censure  :  What's  the  matter 
That  you  unlace  your  reputation  thus, 
And  spend  your  rich  opinion,  for  the  name 
Of  a  night-brawler  ?  give  me  answer  to  it. 

Mon.  Worthy  Othello,  I  am  hurt  to  danger ; 
Your  officei-,  lago,  can  inform  you — 
While  I  spare   speech,  which   something   now 

off'ends  me, — 
Of  all  that  I  do  know  :  nor  know  I  aught 
By  me  that's  said  or  done  amiss  this  night  ; 
Unless  self-charity  be  sometimes  a  vice, 
And  to  defend  ourselves  it  be  a  sin 
When  violence  assails  us. 

0th.  Now,  by  heaven, 

My  blood  begins  my  safer  guides  to  rule ; 
And  passion,  having  my  best  judgment  collied,b 
Assays  to  lead  the  way  :  If  I  once  stir, 
Or  do  but  lift  this  arm,  the  best  of  you 
Shall  sink  in  my  rebuke.     Give  me  to  know 

*  One  at  other's.  All  the  variorum  editions  give  this 
phrase  properly ;  but  in  the  smaller  editions  of  the  text  we 
iuvariably  find,  one  at  another's.  It  is  lamentable  that 
tvpographical  mistakes  should  be  so  multiplied. 
'  0  Collied  —  blackened  — discoloured.  The  quarto  reads 
'•ooled,  evidently  a  mistake. 

283 


Act  no 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK  III. 


How  this  foul  rout  began,  who  set  it  on  ; 
And  he  that  is  approv'd  in  this  offence, 
Though  he  had  twinn'd   with  me,   both   at  a 

birth. 
Shall  loose  me." — What !  in  a  town  of  war, 
Yet  wild,  the  people's  hearts  brimful  of  fear. 
To  manage  private  and  domestic  quarrel. 
In    night,    and    on   the   court   and    guard   of 

safety !  *• 
'Tis  monstrous. — lago,  who  began't  ? 

Mo7i.     If   partially    afHn'd,    or    leagu'd    in 
office. 
Thou  dost  deliver  more  or  less  than  truth, 
Thou  art  no  soldier. 

lago.  Touch  me  not  so  near  : 

I   had  rather   have  this   tongue   cut  from   my 

mouth, 
Than  it  should  do  offence  to  Michael  Cassio  ; 
Yet,  I  persuade  myself,  to  speak  the  truth 
Shall  nothing  wrong  him. — This  it  is,  general. 
Montano  and  myself  being  in  speech. 
There  comes  a  fellow  crying  out  for  help  ; 
And   Cassio    following    him    with    determin'd 

sword, 
To  execute  upon  him  :  Sir,  this  gentleman 
Steps  in  to  Cassio,  and  entreats  his  pause  ; 
Myself  the  crying  fellow  did  pursue. 
Lest,  by  his  clamour,  (as  it  so  fell  ovit,) 
The   town   might   fall   in   fright :    he,   swift  of 

foot. 
Outran  my  purpose  ;  and  I  return'd  then  rather 
For  that  I  heard  the  clink  and  fall  of  swords. 
And  Cassio  high  in  oath  ;  which,  till  to-night, 
I  ne'er  might  say  before  :  When  I  came  back, 
(For   this   was  brief,)   I  found  them  close  to- 
gether. 
At  blow,  and  thrust ;  even  as  again  they  were 
When  you  yoiu'self  did  part  them. 
More  of  this  matter  cannot  I  report : — 
But  men    are  men :    the  best  sometimes  for- 
get:— 
Though  Cassio  did  some  little  wrong  to  him, — 
As  men  in  rage  strike  those  that  wish  them 

best, — 
Yet  surely  Cassio,  I  believe,  receiv'd 
From  him  that  fled  some  strange  indignity. 
Which  patience  could  not  pass. 

•  Loose  me.  So  both  the  orifpnal  editions.  In  the  modern 
editions  it  is  invariably  printed,  lose  me;  the  same  word, 
certainly,  but  ditferently  applied.  By  the  employment  of 
lose  we  destroy  the  force  of  "  Though  he  had  twinn'd  with 
me." 

^  Malone  reads, — 

"  In  night,  and  on  the  court  of  guard  and  safety." 
Steevens  and  he  have  a  great  controversy  .about  it  ;  Malone 
contending  that  court  of  guard   is  a  proper  teclinical   ex- 
pression, 

284 


0th.  I  know,  lago. 

Thy  honesty  and  love  doth  mince  this  matter. 
Making  it  light  to  Cassio  : — Cassio,  I  love  thee ; 
But  never  more  be  officer  of  mine. 

Enter  Desdemona  attended. 

Look,  if  my  gentle  love  be  not  rais'd  up  ; — 
I'll  make  tliee  an  example. 

Des.  What  is  the  matter,  dear? 

0th.  All's  well,  sweeting. 

Come  away  to  bed.    Sir,  for  your  hurts. 
Myself  will  be  your  surgeon  :  Lead  him  off. 

[To  MoNTANo,  who  is  led  off. 
lago,  look  with  care  about  the  town  ; 
And  silence   those  whom  this  vile  brawl   dis- 
tracted. 
Come,  Desdemona :  'tis  the  soldiers'  life 
To   have   their    balmy     slumbers   wak'd   with 
strife. 

[Exeimt  all  but  Iago  and  Cassio. 

laffo.  What,  are  you  hurt,  lieutenant  ? 

Cas.  Ay,  past  all  surgery. 

laffo.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  ! 

Cas.  Reputation,  reputation,  reputation  !  O, 
I  have  lost  my  reputation  !  I  have  lost  the  im- 
mortal part  of  myself,  and  what  remains  is 
bestial. — My  reputation,  lago,  my  reputation. 

Iago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man  I  had  thought 
you  had  received  some  bodily  wound ;  there  is 
more  sense*  in  that  than  in  reputation.  Reputa- 
tion is  an  idle  and  most  false  imposition ;  oft 
got  without  merit,  and  lost  without  deserving : 
You  have  lost  no  reputation  at  all,  unless  you 
repute  yourself  such  a  loser.  What,  man  !  there 
are  ways  to  recover  the  general  again  :  You  are 
but  now  cast  in  his  mood,  a  punishment  more 
in  policy  than  in  malice ;  even  so  as  one  Avould 
beat  his  offenceless  dog  to  affright  an  imperious 
lion  :  sue  to  him  again,  and  he  is  yours. 

Cas.  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised,  than  to 
deceive  so  good  a  commander  with  so  slight,  so 
drunken,  and  so  indiscreet  an  officer.  Drunk? 
and  speak  parrot  ?  and  squabble  ?  swagger  ? 
swear  ?  and  discourse  fustian  with  one's  own 
shadow  ?'' — O  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if 
thou  hast  no  name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call 
thee  devil ! 

Iago.  What  was  he  that  you  followed  with 
your  sword  ?  What  had  he  done  to  you  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not. 

Iago.  Is't  possible  ? 


•  Sense.  The  quarto  reads  offence.  The  sense  of  a  wound 
is  its  sensibility. 

•>  This  most  expressive  sentence,  from  drunk  to  shadoiv,  is 
not  found  in  the  quarto. 


Act  II.] 


OTPIELLO. 


[ScknkIII. 


Cas.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  no- 
thing distinctly  ;  a  quarrel,  but  nothing  where- 
fore.— O  that  men  should  put  an  enemy  in  their 
mouths  to  steal  away  their  brains !  that  we 
should,  with  joy,  pleasance,  revel,  and  applause," 
transform  ourselves  into  beasts ! 

lago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough  : 
How  came  you  thus  recovered  ? 

Cas.  It  hath  pleased  the  devil  drunkenness, 
to  give  place  to  the  devil  wrath  :  one  unperfect- 
ness  shows  me  another,  to  make  me  frankly 
despise  myself. 

lago.  Come,  you  are  too  severe  a  moraler  : 
As  the  time,  the  place,  and  the  condition  of  this 
coimtry  stands,  I  could  heartily  wish  this  had 
not  befallen  ;  but,  since  it  is  as  it  is,  mend  it  for 
your  own  good. 

Cas.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again  ;  he 
shall  tell  me  I  am  a  drunkard  !  Had  I  as 
many  mouths  as  Hydra  such  an  answer  would 
stop  them  all.  To  be  now  a  sensible  man,  by  and 
by  a  fool,  and  presently  a  beast !  O  strange  ! — 
Every  inordinate  cup  is  imbless'd,  and  the  in- 
gredient is  a  devil. 

lago.  Come,  come,  good  wine  is  a  good 
familiar  creature,  if  it  be  well  used  ;  exclaim  no 
more  against  it.  And,  good  lieutenant,  I  think 
you  think  I  love  you. 

Cas.  I  have  well  approved  it,  sir. — I  drunk  ! 
lago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk 
at  a  time,  man.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  shall  do. 
Gur  general's  wife  is  now  the  general : — I  may 
say  so  in  this  respect,  for  that  he  hath  devoted 
and  given  up  himself  to  the  contemplation, — 
niark,^ — anddevotemenf^  of  her  parts  and  graces : 
— confess  j'ourself  freely  to  her ;  importune  her 
help  to  put  you  in  your  place  again  :  she  is  of 
so  free,  so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposition, 
she  holds  it  a  vice  in  her  goodness  not  to  do 
more  than  she  is  requested:  This  broken  joint,'' 
between  you  and  her  husband,  entreat  her  to 
splinter ;  and,  my  fortunes  against  any  lay 
worth  naming,  this  crack  of  your  love  shall  grow 
stronger  than  it  was  before. 
Cas.  You  advise  me  well. 
lago.  I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love  and 
honest  kindness. 

Cas.  I  think  it  freely;  and,  betimes  in  the 
morning,  I  will  beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona 


"  The  quarto  reads  (and  the  editors  follow  it  without 
giving  the  parallel  passage  in  the  folio),  juy,  revi:l,  pleasure, 
and  iippliiuse.    Vi'e  are  glad  to  "  recover  "  pleasance. 

••  Murk!  is  here  used  as  an  interjection.  is  ordinarily 

printed  as  a  substantive. 

'  Devotement.    Tlieoljald  changed  this  to  denotement. 

^  Bnihen  joint.    The  quarto  6io«7. 

Tbaoeoies.— Vol.  I.     2  0 


to   undertake  for  me :   I  am  desperate  of  my 
fortunes  if  they  check  me. 

lago.   You  are  in  the  right.      Good  night, 
lieutenant ;  I  must  to  the  watch. 

Cas.  Good  night,  honest  lago.  [£a;27CAssio. 

lago.  And  what's  he  then  that  says  I  play  the 
villain  ? 
When  this  advice  is  free,  I  give,  and  honest, 
Probar*  to  thinking,  and  indeed  the  course 
To  win  the  Moor  again?     For  'tis  most  easy 
The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 
In  any  honest  suit ;  she's  frani'd  as  fruitful 
As  the  free  elements.     And  then  for  her 
To  win  the  Moor, — were't  to  renounce  his  bap- 
tism, 
All  seals  and  symbols  of  redeemed  sin, — 
His  soul  is  so  enfetter'd  to  her  love. 
That  she  may  make,  unmake,  do  what  she  list. 
Even  as  her  appetite  shall  play  the  god 
With  his  weak  function.     How  am  I  then   a 

villain. 
To  counsel  Cassio  to  this  parallel  course. 
Directly  to  his  good  ?     Divinity  of  hell ! 
When  devils  will  the  blackest  sins  put  on, 
They  do  suggest  at  first  with  heavenly  shows, 
As  I  do  now  :  For  whiles  this  honest  fool 
Plies  Desdemona  to  repair  his  fortune. 
And  she  for  him  pleads  strongly  to  the  Moor, 
I'll  pour  this  pestilence  into  his  ear, — 
That  she  repeals  him  for  her  body's  lust  ; 
And  by  how  much  she  strives  to  do  him  good, 
She  shall  undo  her  credit  with  the  Moor. 
So  will  I  turn  her  virtue  into  pitch  ; 
And  out  of  her  own  goodness  make  the  net 
That  shall  enmesh  them  all. — How  now,  Rude- 


rigo  1 


Elite)-  RODERIGO. 


Bod.  I  do  follow  here  in  the  chase,  not  like  a 
hoimd  that  hunts  but  one  that  fills  up  tlie  cry. 
My  money  is  almost  spent;  I  have  been  to- 
night exceedingly  well  cudgelled ;  and,  I  think, 
the  issue  will  be  I  shall  have  so  much  experience 
for  my  pains :  and  so,  with  no  money  at  all, 
and  a  little  more  wit,  return  to  Venice. 

lago.  How    poor    are    they    that  have    not 

patience ! 
What  woiuid  did  ever  heal  but  by  degrees  ? 
Thou  know'st,    Ave   work  by    wit   and   not  by 

witchcraft ; 
And  wit  depends  on  dilatory  time. 
Does  't  not  go  well  ?  Cassio  hath  beaten  thee. 


»  P/(/6((/— probalile— an  abbreviation    not  found  in  any 
other  writer,  we  believe. 

285 


Anr  n.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  III. 


And  thou,   by  that  small  hurt,   hast   cashier' cl 

Cassio  : 
Though  other  things  grow  fair  against  the  sxni, 
Yet  fruits  that  blossom  first  will  first  be  ripe  : 
Content  thyself  a   while. — In  troth,  'tis  morn- 

hig; 
Pleasure,   and   action,    make    the   hours    seem 

short. 
Retire  thee  ;  go  where  thou  art  billeted : 


Away,  I  say,  thou  shalt  know  more  hereafter : 
Nay,   get  thee  gone.  [^Exit  Rod.]  Two  things 

are  to  be  done, — 
My  wife  must  move  for  Cassio  to  her  mistress , 
I'll  set  her  on  ; 

Myself,  the  while,  to  draw  the  Moor  apart, 
And  bring  him  jump  when  he  may  Cassio  find 
Soliciting  his  wife  : — Ay,  that's  the  way  ; 
Dull  not  device  by  coldness  and  delay.      \_Exit. 


[Estvadiot.] 


286 


1     " 


[View  of  Cerini.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT    II. 


'  Scene  I. — "  A  Sea-port  Town  in  Cyprus.'" 

In  the  Introductory  Notice  we  have  noticed  the 
locality  of  the  port  in  Cyprus  which  is  associated 
with  the  fate  of  the  unfortunate  Othello  and  Desde- 
mona.  That  Famagusta  was  the  chief  port  and 
stronghold,  during  the  Venetian  rule  in  Cyprus, 
there  can  be  little  doubt.  But,  as  an  illustration  of 
the  general  scenery  of  that  island,  we  present  our 
readers  with  an  engraving  of  Cerini,  the  ancient 
Cerinia,  on  the  north-coast,  from  an  original  sketch 
by  Mr.  Arundale. 

2  Scene  III. — "  King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer. '''' 

Percy,  in  his  '  Reliques,'  has  printed  from  a  ma- 
nuscript the  exceedingly  interesting  ballad  from 
wliich  Shakspere  adopted  this  verse.  The  reading 
in  the  manuscript  of  that  verse  is  somewhat  dif- 
ferent, although  Percy  adopted  Shakspere's  reading, 
generally,  in  his  printed  ballad : — 

"  King  Harry  was  a  vcrry  good  king, 
I  trow  his  hose  cost  but  a  crown  ; 
He  tliought  them  12d.  to  deere. 

Therefore  he  calUl  the  taylor  clowuc. 
He  was  king  and  wore  the  crowue, 
And  thouse  but  of  a  low  degree  ; 
Itis  pride  that  putts  tliis  co\intrye  downe, 
Man,  take  thine  old  cloakc  about  thee." 


Our  readers  will  not  be  displeased  to  have  the  entire 
ballad  here  reprinted.  Percy  thinks  that  it  was 
originally  Scotch. 


TAKE  THY  OLD  CLOAK  ABOUT  THEE. 

This  winter's  weather  ilt  waxeth  cold, 

And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill. 
And  Boreas  blowes  his  blasts  soe  bold. 

That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill ;  * 
Bell,  my  wiffe,  who  loves  noe  strife, 

She  sayd  unto  me  quietlye. 
Rise  up,  and  save  cow  Crumbocke's  liffe, 

Man,  put  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 
0  Bell,  why  dost  Uiou  flyte  and  scorne? 

Thou  kenst  my  cloak  is  very  thin ; 
Itt  is  soe  bare  and  overworue, 

A  cricket  he  theron  cannot  renn:  % 
Then  He  noe  longer  borrowe  nor  lend. 

For  once  He  new  appareld  bee. 
To-morrow  He  to  towne  and  spend. 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

*  S,mll.    Tn  spoil ;  to  come  to  harm, 
t  CricU.    A  small  insect.  X     ^''nn.    H 

287 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


She. 
Cow  Cnimbocke  is  a  very  gocirt  cowe, 

Shee  lia  beene  alwayi-s  true  to  the  payle, 
She  lias  lielpt  iis  to  butter  and  cheese,  I  trow. 

And  other  things  shee  will  not  fayle: 

I  wold  be  lolh  to  see  her  pine, 

Good  husband,  couucell  take  of  mee. 
It  i-i  not  for  us  to  go  soe  fine, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 

My  cloake  it  was  a  verry  good  cloake, 
Itt  hath  been  alwayes  true  to  the  weare, 

But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groat ; 
I  have  had  it  four-and-forty  yeere. 

Sometime  itt  was  of  cloth  in  graiuc, 
'Tis  now  but  a  sigh-clout,*  as  you  may  see, 

I I  will  neither  hold  out  w  inde  nor  raine. 
And  lie  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She. 
It  is  four-and-foitye  yeeres  agoe 

Since  the  one  of  us  did  the  other  ken  ; 
And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  twoe 

Of  children  either  nine  or  ten  : 
Wee  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and  men  ; 

In  the  feare  of  God  I  trow  they  bee ; 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyselfe  misken  ?  t 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

*  Sigh  dout.  A  clout,  or  cloth,  to  strain  milk  through. 
A  si/llw-clout ,  that  which  severs,  divides  the  milk  from  impu- 
rities, or  the  curd  from  the  whey.  Tlie  word  is  still  used  in 
the  miilland  counties. 

t  Misken.     Mistake. 


He. 
O  Bell ,  my  wiffe,  why  dost  tho  i  floute  ? 

Now  is  nowe,  and  then  was  then  : 
Seeke  now  all  ihe  world  throughout. 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen 
They  are  cladd  in  blacke,  greane,  yellowe,  or  gray, 

Soe  far  above  their  own  degree : 
Once  in  my  life  He  doe  as  they. 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She. 
King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  pcere. 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne ; 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere. 

Therefore  he  calld  the  taylor  lowne. 
Hi'  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne. 

And  thouse  but  of  low  degree ; 
Itts  pride  that  putts  the  countrye  downe, 

Man,  take  thine  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He. 
Bell,  my  wiffe,  she  loves  not  strife. 

Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can  ;  < 

And  oft,  to  live  a  quiet  life, 

I  am  forced  to  yield,  though  Ime  good-man. 
Itis  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  Ihreape,* 

Unlesse  he  first  give  oer  the  plea  : 
As  wee  began  wee  now  will  leave. 

And  He  take  mine  old  cloake  about  mee. 


To  thrciipe.    To  argue. 


288 


[Venetian  Remains  at  Famagusta  ] 


ACT   III. 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Cassio,  mid  some  Musicians. 

Cas.  Masters,  play  liere,  I  will  content  your 
pains, 
Something  that's  brief;  and  bid.  Good- morrow, 
general.  \_Music. 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  Why,  masters,  have  your  instruments 
been  in  Naples,  that  they  speak  i'the  nose  thus? 

1  Mus.  How,  sir,  how  ? 

Clo.  Are  these,  I  pray  you,  wind  instruments  ?'' 

1  Mus.  Ay,  many,  are  they,  sir. 

Clo.  O,  thereby  hangs  a  tail. 

1  Mus.  Whereby  hangs  a  tale,  sir  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  by  many  a  wind  instrument 
that  I  know.  But,  masters,  here's  money  for 
you :  and  the  general  so  likes  your  music  that 
he  desires  you,  for  love's  sake,''  to  make  no  more 
noise  with  it. 


'•  The  quarto  roads,  "  call'd  wind  instruments." 

i"  Fur  love's  sake.   The  quarto  has  the  prettier  phrase,  of  all 

loves. 


1  Mus.  Well,  sir,  we  will  not. 

Clo.  If  you  have  any  music  that  may  not  be 
heard,  to't  again  :  but,  as  they  say,  to  hear  music 
the  general  does  not  greatly  care. 

1  Mus.  We  have  none  such,  sir. 

Clo.  Then  put  up  your  pipes  in  your  bag,  for 
I'll  away  :  Go  ;  vanish  into  air  ;*  away. 

[^Exeunt  Musicians. 

Cas.  Dost  thou  he<ir,  my  honest  friend  ? 

Clo.  No,  I  hear  not  your  honest  friend;  I 
hear  you. 

Cas.  Prithee,  keep  up  thy  quillets.  There's 
a  poor  piece  of  gold  for  thee  :  if  the  gentlewoman 
that  attends  the  general's  wife  be  stirring,  tell 
her,  there's  one  Cassio  entreats  her  a  little  favour 
of  speech  :  Wilt  thou  do  this  ? 

Clo.  She  is  stirring,  sir ;  if  she  wiU  stir  hither 
I  shall  seem  to  notify  unto  her.  ^Exif. 

Elite);  Iago. 
Cas.  [Do,  good  my  friend].'' — In  happy  tune, 
Iago. 

>  Tlie  quarto,  vanish  away. 

'■  Tlie  words  in  brackets  are  not  found  in  the  folio. 

289 


Aci    III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scenes  II.  111. 


lago.  You  have  not  been  a-bed  then  ? 

Cas.  Wliy,  no  ;  the  day  had  broke 
Before  we  parted.     I  have  made  bold,  lago, 
To  send  in  to  yoiu-  wife  :  My  suit  to  lier 
Is,  that  she  will  to  virtuous  Desdemona 
Procure  me  some  access. 

lago.  I'll  send  her  to  you  presently; 

And  I'll  devise  a  mean  to  draw  the  Moor 
Out  of  the  way,  that  your  converse   and  busi- 
ness 
May  be  more  free.  \Exit. 

Cas.  I   humbly   thank    you  for't.      I   never 
knew 
A  Florentine  more  kind  and  honest.* 

Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  Good  morrow,  good  lieutenant :  I  am 
sorry 
For  your  displeasure ;  but  all  will  sure  be  well. 
The  general  and  his  wife  are  talking  of  it, 
And   she  speaks  for  you   stoutly :    The  Moor 

replies. 
That  he  you  hurt  is  of  great  fame  in  Cyprus, 
And   great  affinity;    and   that,    in    wholesome 

wisdom. 
He  might  not  but  refuse  you  :  but  he  protests  he 

loves  you ; 
And  needs  no  other  suitor,  but  his  likings, 
[To  take  the  saf'st  occasion  by  the  front],'' 
To  bring  you  in  again. 

Cos.  Yet,  I  beseech  you, — 

If  you  think  fit,  or  that  it  may  be  done, — 
Give  me  advantage  of  some  brief  discourse 
With  Desdemona  alone. 

Emil.  Pray  you,  come  in  ; 

I  will  bestow  you  where  you  shall  have  time 
To  speak  your  bosom  freely. 

Cas.  I  am  much  bound  to  you. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  W.—A  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Othello,   Iago,  ami  Gentlemen. 

Otli.  These  letters  give,  lago,  to  the  pilot; 
And,  by  him,  do  my  duties  to  the  senate  :•= 
That  done,  I  will  be  walking  on  the  works, — 
Repair  there  to  me. 

Iago.  Well,  my  good  lord,  I'll  do't. 

0th.  This  fortification,  gentlemen,    shall  we 
see't? 

Gent.  We'll  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [Exeimt. 

'  See  note  to  Act  r.,  Sc.  i. 

'■  The  words  in  brackets  are  not  found  in  tlie  folio. 

'  The  quarto,  state. 

290 


SCENE  lU.— Before  the  Castle. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Cassio,  and  Emilia. 

Des.  Be  thou  assur'd,  good  Cassio,  I  will  do 
All  my  abilities  in  thy  behalf. 

Emil.  Good  madam,  do  ;  I  warrant"  it  grieves 
my  husband. 
As  if  the  cause **  were  his. 

Des.  O,    that's  an   honest   fellow. — Do  not 
doubt,  Cassio, 
But  I  Avill  have  my  lord  and  you  again 
As  friendly  as  you  were. 

Cas.  Boimteous  madam. 

Whatever  shall  become  of  Michael  Cassio, 
He's  never  any  thing  but  your  true  servant. 

Des.  I  know 't, — I  thank  you  :*^  You  do  love 
my  lord : 
You  have  known  him  long ;  and  be  you  well 

assur'd 
He  shall  in  strangeness  stand  no  farther  off 
Than  in  a  politic  distance. 

Cas.  Ay,  but,  lady, 

That  policy  may  either  last  so  long. 
Or  feed  upon  such  nice  and  waterish  diet. 
Or  breed  itself  so  out  of  circumstance. 
That,  I  being  absent,  and  my  place  supplied, 
My  general  will  forget  my  love  and  service. 

Des.  Do  not  doubt  that ;  before  Emilia  here, 
I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place  :  assure  thee, 
If  I  do  vow  a  friendship  I'll  perform  it 
To  the  last  article  :  my  lord  shall  never  rest ; 
I  '11  watch  him  tame,**  and  talk  him  out  of  patience ; 
His  bed  shall  seem  a  school,  his  board  a  shrift ; 
I'll  intermingle  every  thing  he  does 
With  Cassio's  suit :    Therefore  be  merry,  Cassio, 
For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die 
Than  give  thy  cause  away. 

Enter  Othello  and  Iago  at  a  distance. 

Emil.  Madam,  here  comes 

My  lord. 

Cas.         Madam,  I  '11  take  my  leave. 

Des.  Why,  stay. 

And  hear  me  speak. 

Cas.  Madam,  not  now  ;  I  am  very  ill  at  ease, 
Unfit  for  mine  own  purposes. 

Des.  Well ;  do  your  discretion.  \_Exit  Cassio. 

Iago.  Ha  !  I  like  not  that. 

0th.  What  dost  thou  say  ? 

•  The  quarto,  hnnw. 
^  Tlie  quarto,  case. 
"  Tlie  quarto,  0/  sir,  I  tliank  ynn. 

"•  Hawlvs  were  tamed  by  being  kept  from  sleep.     TIius  in 
Cartwright's  '  Lady  Errant' — 

"  We  '11  keep  you. 
As  tliey  do  hawks,  watching  until  you  leave 
Your  wildneis." 


Acr  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  III. 


logo.  Nothing,  my  lord  :  or  if — I  know  not 
what. 

0th.  Was  not  that  Cassio  parted  frommy  wife? 

lago.  Cassio,  my  lord  ?  No,  sure,    I  cannot 
think  it, 
That  he  would  steal  away  so  guilty-like, 
Seeing  your  coming. 

Otli.  I  do  believe  'twas  he. 

Des.  How  now,  my  lord? 
I  have  been  talking  with  a  suitor  here, 
A  man  that  languishes  in  your  displeasure. 

0th.  Who  is  't  you  mean  ? 

Des.  Why,  your  lieutenant  Cassio.  Good  my 
lord," 
If  I  have  any  grace,  or  power  to  move  you, 
His  present  reconciliation  take  ; 
For,  if  he  be  not  one  that  truly  loves  you, 
That  errs  in  ignorance  and  not  in  cunning, 
I  have  no  judgment  in  an  honest  face  : 
I  prithee  call  him  back. 

0th.  Went  he  hence  now  ? 

Des.  Ay,  sooth  ;  so  humbled, 
That  he  hath  left  part  of  his  grief  with  me. 
To  suffer  with  him."     Good  love,  call  him  back. 

0th.  Not  now,  sweet  Desdemon;''  some  other 
time. 

Des.  But  shall "t  be  shortly? 

0th.  The  sooner,  sweet,  for  you. 

Des.  Shall 't  be  to-night  at  supper? 

0th.  No,  not  to-night. 

Des.  To-moiTow  dinner  then  ? 

0th.  I  shall  not  dine  at  home  ; 

I  meet  the  captains  at  the  citadel. 

Des.  Why  then,  to-morrow  night ;  on  Tuesday 
morn  ; 
On   Tuesday  noon,  or  night;    on'=  Wednesday 
morn ;  — 


•  Tlie  quarto,  /  suffer  u-ith  him. 

•"  Sweet  Desdemon.  In  five  passar,'es  of  this  (ilay,  in  the 
folio  edition,  Desdemoiia  is  culled  Desdemun.  The  circum- 
stan(!e  is  entirely  unnoticed  by  tlie  modern  editors ;  but  the 
abbreviation  was  not  a  capricious  one,  nor  was  it  introduced 
merely  for  the  suke  of  rhythm.  It  is  clearly  used  as  an 
epithet  of  familiar  tenderness.  In  the  present  instance 
Othello  playfully  evades  his  wife's  solicitations  with  a  rarely- 
nsed  term  of  endearment.  In  the  next  case,  Act  iv.,  Sc.  ii., 
it  comes  out  of  the  deptli  of  conflicting  love  and  jealousy — 

"  Ah!  Desdemon,  away,  away,  away  !  " 
In  the  next  place  where  he  employs  it,  Act  v.,  Sc.  ti.,  it  is 
used  upon  the  last  solemn  occasion  when  he  speaks  to  her, — 

"  Have  you  pray'd  to  night,  Desdemon  ?  " 
And,  lastly,  it  is  spoken  by  him  when  he  has  discovered  tlie 
full  extent  of  his  guilt  and  misery  :  — 

"  O  Desdemon  !  dead  Desdemon,  dead." 
The  only  other  occasion  in  which  it  is  employed  is  by  her 
uncle  Gratiano, — 

"  Poor  Desdemon .'" 
Surely  we  have  no  warrant  for  rejecting  such  a  marked  pecu- 
liarity. 

"=  The  repetition  of  the  word  on,  instead  of  or,  is  the  read- 
ing of  the  folio.     It  is  much  more  emphatic. 


I  prithee  name  the  time  ;  but  let  it  not 
Exceed  three  days  :  in  faith  he's  penitent ; 
And  yet  his  trespass,  in  our  common  reason, 
(Save  that,  they  say,  the  wars  must  make  example 
Out  of  their  best,)  is  not  almost  a  fault 
To  incur  a  private  check  :  When  shall  he  come  ? 
Tell  me,  Othello.     I  wonder  in  my  soul. 
What  you  would  ask  me  that  I  should  deny. 
Or  stand  so  mammering"  on.    What!  Michael 

Cassio, 
That  came  a  wooing  with  you ;  and  so  many  a 

time,*" 
When  I  have  spoke  of  you  dispraisingly, 
Hath  ta'en  your  part ;  to  have  so  much  to  do 
To  bring  him  in  !  Trust  me,  I  could  do  much, — 
0th.  Prithee,  no  more  :  let  him  come  when  he 

will; 
I  will  deny  thee  nothing. 

Des.  Why,  this  is  not  a  boon ; 

'Tis  as  I  should  entreat  you  wear  your  gloves, 
Or  feed  on  nourishing  dishes,  or  keep  you  warm ; 
Or  sue  to  you  to  do  a  peculiar  profit 
To  your  own  person  :  Nay,  when  I  have  a  suit 
Wherein  I  mean  to  touch  your  love  indeed. 
It  shall  be  full  of  poize  and  difficult  weight,"^ 
And  fearful  to  be  granted. 

0th.  I  will  deny  thee  nothing : 

Whereon,  I  do  beseech  thee,  grant  me  this, 
To  leave  me  but  a  little  to  myself. 

Des.  Shall  I  deny  you  ?   no :    Farewell,  my 

lord. 
0th.  Farewell,  my  Desdemona  :  I  '11  come  to 

thee  straight. 
Des.  Emilia,  come: — Be  as  your  fancies  teach 

you; 
Whate'er  you  be,  I  am  obedient. 

\_Exit,  with  Emilia. 
Olh.  Excellent  wretch  !  ^   Perdition  catch  my 

soul 
But  I  do  love  thee !  and  when  I  love  thee  not 
Chaos  is  come  again, 

"  Mummermg.  The  quarto,  muttering.  The  word — hav- 
ing the  meaning  of  suspense — doubt — is  constantly  used  by 
our  old  writers,  as  in  Lyly's  '  Euphues' — "  Neither  stand  in 
a  mnmmering,  whetlier  it  be  best  to  depart  or  not." 

^  Steevens  struck  out  so  in  the  course  of  his  hood-winked 
pruning. 

"  The  quarto  reads, — 

"  It  shall  be  full  of  poise  and  difficulty.'' 
This  is  adopted  without  any  mention  of  the  reading  difficult 
weight;  and  then  the  editors  tell  us  that  poise  is  weight. 
Now,  in  the  sense  before  us,  poise  is  balance,  and  Desdemona 
means  to  say  that,  when  she  really  prefers  a  s\iit  that  shall 
task  tlie  love  of  Othello,  it  shall  be  one  diflicult  to  deter- 
mine, and,  when  determined,  hard  to  be  undertaken. 

*  JFrefch.  The  playhouse  copies,  in  their  nicely-critical 
phraseology,  give  us  trench  instead  o{  wretch.  Johnson  pro- 
perly explains  wretch  as  expressing  "the  utmost  degree  of 
amiableness,  joined  with  an  idea,  which  perhaps  all  tcnder- 
nessincludes,  of  feebleness,  softin'ss,  and  wantofprotection." 

291 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK     11. 


lago.  My  noble  lord, — 

0th.  What  dost  tliou  say,  lago  ? 

lago.  Did  Michael  Cassio,  when  you  woo'd 
my  lady, 
Know  of  your  love  ? 

0th.  He  did,   from   first  to  last :   Why  dost 
thou  ask  1 

lago.  But  for  a  satisfaction  of  my  thought ; 
No  further  harm. 

0th.  Why  of  thy  thought,  lago  ? 

lago.  I  did  not  think  he  had  been  acquainted 
with  her. 

0th.  O,  yes ;  and  went  between  us  very  oft. 

lago.  Indeed? 

0th.  Indeed?    ay,  indeed: — Discern'st  thou 
aught  in  that  ? 
Is  he  not  honest? 

lago.  Honest,  my  lord? 

0th.  Honest?'*  Ay,  honest. 

lago.  My  lord,  for  aught  I  know, 

0th.  What  dost  thou  think  ? 

lago.  Think,  my  lord  ? 

0th.  Think,  my  lord  ?   Alas!  thou  echoest  me ^ 
As  if  there  were  some  monster  in  thy  thought 
Too  hideous   to    be  shown. — Thou  dost  mean 

something : 
I  heard  thee  say  even  now, — Thou  lik'dst  not 

that. 
When  Cassio  left  my  wife  :  What  did'st  not  like  ? 
And,  when  I  told  thee  he  was  of  my  counsel 
In   my  whole   course    of  wooing,  thou  cry'dst, 

Indeed  ? 
And  didst  contract  and  purse  thy  brow  together. 
As  if  thou  then  hadst  shut  up  in  thy  brain 
Some  horrible  conceit :   If  thou  dost  love  me 
Show  me  thy  thought. 

lago.  My  lord,  you  know  I  love  you. 

0th.  I  think  thou  dost ; 

And,  for  I  know  thou  'rt  full  of  love  and  honesty, 
And  weigh'st  thy  words  before  thou  giv'st  them 

breath, 
Therefore  these  stops  of  thine  fright  me  the  more  : 
For  such  things  in  a  false  disloyal  knave 
Are  tricks  of  custom;  but  in  a  man  that's  just. 
They  're  close  delations,*^  working  from  the  heart, 
That  passion  cannot  rule. 

"  This  re-echo  of  lago's  echo  is  rejected  by  Steevens,  be- 
cause it  violates  the  measure.  He  could  only  see  two  sylla- 
bles beyond  the  ten,  without  any  regard  to  the  force  and 
consistency  of  the  passage. 

i"  The  quarto  reads,  "  By  heaven  he  echoes  me."  The  quarto 
of  1630,  "  JF/iy  dust  thou' echo  mef"  There  is  a  quiet  expres- 
sion of  dread, — a  solemn  foreboding  of  evil — in  the  reading 
of  the  folio,  which  we  give. 

"Delations.  The  <\nSirio,  denotements.  The  original  word 
dilations  is  rejected  by  the  editors,  because  they  accept  it 
either  in  the  sense  of  delays,  or  dilatements.  We  have 
adopted  Johnson's  ingenious  suggestion,  that  the  dilations  of 
the  folio  was  de/ofions— secret  accusations.  Sir  Henry  Wol- 
ton  uses  delations  in  the  same  sense. 
292 


[ago.  For  Michael  Cassio,— 

I  dare  be  sworn  I  think  that  he  is  honest. 

0th.  I  think  so  too. 

lago.  Men  should  be  what  they  seem  ; 

Or,  those  that  be  not  'would  they  might  seem 
none ! 

0th.  Certain,  men  should  be  what  they  seem. 

lago.  Why  then,  I  think  Cassio  's  an  honest 
man. 

0th.  Nay,  yet  there's  more  in  this? 
I  prithee  speak  to  me,  as  to  thy  thinkings. 
As  thou  dost  ruminate  ;  and  give  thy  woi'st  of 

thoughts 
The  worst  of  words. 

lago.  Good  my  lord,  pardon  me  ; 

Though  I  am  bound  to  every  act  of  duty, 
I  am  not  bovmd  to  that  all  slaves  are  free  to. 
Utter  my  thoughts?     Why,  say,  they  are  vile 

and  false, — 
As  wliere's  that  palace  whereinto  foul  things 
Sometimes  intrude  not? — who  has  a  breast  so 

pure, 
But  some  uncleanly  apprehensions 
Keep  leets  and  law-days,  and  in  sessions"  sit 
With  meditations  lawful  ? 

0th.  Thou  dost  conspire  against  thy  friend, 
lago. 
If  thou  but  think'st  him  wrong'd,  and  mak'st 

his  ear 
A  stranger  to  thy  thoughts. 

lago.  I  do  beseech  you, 

Though  I,  perchance,  am  vicious  in  my  guess, 
(As  I  confess  it  is  my  natiu'e's  plague 
To  spy  into  abuses,  and  of  my  jealousy 
Shapes  faults  that  are  not,)  that  your  wisdom 
From  one  that  so  imperfectly  conceits 
Would   take  no  notice  i**  nor  build  yourself  a 

trouble 
Out  of  his  scattering  and  unsure  observance  : 
It  were  not  for  your  quiet,  nor  your  good. 
Nor  for  my  manhood,  honesty,  and  wisdom. 
To  let  you  know  my  thoughts. 

0th.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 


"  The  quarto,  session.    The  reading  of  the  folio,  sessions, 
has  a  parallel  in  that  exquisite  gem,  the  301h  Sonnet: — 
"  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 

t  The  modern  editors  take  the  reading  of  the  quarto : — 

"  I  do  beseech  you, 

Though  I,  perchance,  am  vicious  in  my  guess. 
As,  I  confess,  it  is  my  nature's  plague 
To  spy  into  abuses ;  and  uft  my  jealousy 
Shapes  faults  that  are  not,—/  entreat  yuu,  then. 
From  one  that  so  imperfectly  conjects. 
You'd  take  no  notice." 
They  then  enter  into  a  long  discussion  about  abruptness,  and 
obscurity,  aud  regulation  of  the  pointing,  without  taking  the 
slightest  notice  of  the  perfectly  clear  reading  of  the  folio, 
which  we  give  without  the  alteration  of  a  point  or  letter. 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SctNt.  HI. 


lago.  Good  name  in  man  and  woman,  dear 
my  lord, 
Is  the  immediate  jewel  of  their  souls  : 
Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash ;   'tis  some- 
thing, nothing ; 
'Twas  mine,   'tis   his,    and   has   been   slave    to 

thousands ; 
But  he  that  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 
Robs  me  of  that  which  not  enriches  him. 
And  makes  me  poor  indeed. 
Oth.  I'll  know  thy  thoughts. 
lago.  You  cannot,  if  my  heart  were  in  your 
hand ; 
Nor  shall  not,  whilst  'tis  in  my  custody. 
Olh.  Ha! 

lago.  O,  beware,  my  lord,  of  jealousy; 

It  is  the  green-ey'd  monster,  which  doth  mock 
The  meat  it  feeds  on  :*    That  cuckold  lives   in 

bliss 
Who,  certain  of  his  fate,  loves  not  his  wronger  ; 
But,  O,  what  damned  minutes  tells  he  o'er. 
Who  dotes,  yet   doubts;    suspects,  yet  fondly*" 
loves ! 
Oth.  O  misery ! 

lago.  Poor,  and   content,   is   rich,  and  rich 
enough ; 
But  riches,  fineless,*^  is  as  poor  as  winter. 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor : 
Good  heaven,  the  souls  of  all  my  tribe  defend 
From  jealousy ! 

Oth.  Why  !  why  is  this? 

Think'st  thou,  I'd  make  a  life  of  jealousy, 
To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon 
With  fresh  suspicions  ?  No :  to  be  once  in  doubt. 
Is  once  to  be  resolv'd:  Exchange  me  for  a  goat. 
When  I  shall  turn  the  business  of  my  soul 
To  such  exsufflicate''  and  blow'd  surmises, 

*  This  passage  lias  always  been  a  stumbling-block.     Han- 
mer  reads,  and  Malone  adopts  the  reading, — 

"  It  is  the  green-ey'd  monster  which  doth  mahe 
The  meat  it  feeds  on." 
The  commentators  give  us  five  pages  for  and  against  moch, 
leaviug  the  matter  exactly  where  they  found  it.  Moclte  is 
the  reading  both  of  the  first  quarto  aud  the  folio.  The 
quarto  of  1630  has  "a  green-ey'd  monster,"  which  reading 
has  not  been  noticed.  One  of  the  difficulties  would  be  got 
over  by  adopting  the  indefinite  article ;  for  then  we  should 
not  be  called  upon  to  agree  with  Steevens  that  a  tiger  was 
meant,  nor  with  Jennens  that  it  was  certainly  a  crocodile. 
A  green-ey'd  monster  leaves  us  the  licence  of  imagining  tliat 
the  poet  had  some  chimera  in  his  mind,  to  which  he  applied 
the  epithet,  gieeii-ey"d.  It  has  been  suggested  that  Shak- 
spere  meant  to  say,  that  tlie  meat  mock'd  the  monster, 
instead  of  the  monster  mocking  the  meat.  (Explanations, 
&c.,  Edinburgh,  1814.)  But  the  inverted  construction  which 
this  implies  was  quite  uncalled  for,  and  is  not  in  Shak- 
spere's  manner.  We  have  no  doubt  that  much  is  the  true 
word  ;  and  that  it  may  be  explained,  which  doth  play  with, — 
half  receive,  half  reject, — the  meat  it  feeds  on.  Farmer  sug- 
gested that  it  was  used  for  mammuck,  which  appears  not  un- 
likely. 

■•  Fundly.    The  quarto,  strongly. 

'  F/ne/ess— endless. 

^  Exsufflicate.    Todd,  in  his   edition  of  Johnson's  Dic- 
tionary,   says  tliat  exsufflicate  may   be  traced  to  the  low 

Tb.\8EDIES. — 'Vot..  I.         2  P 


Matching  thy  inference.     'Tis  not  to  make  me 

jealous. 
To  say  my  wife  is  fair,  feeds  well,  loves  com- 
pany. 
Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and  dances  f 
Where  virtue  is,  these  are  more  virtuous : 
Nor  from  mine  own  weak  merits  will  I  draw 
The  smallest  fear,  or  doubt  of  her  revolt ; 
For  she  had  eyes,  and  chose  me :  No,  lago ; 
I'll  see  before  I  doubt ;  when  I  doubt,  prove  ; 
And,  on  the  proof,  there  is  no  more  but  this, — 
Away  at  once  with  love,  or  jealousy. 

lago.  I  am  glad  of  this  ;  for  now  I  shall  have 
reason 
To  show  the  love  and  duty  that  I  bear  you 
With  franker  spirit:  therefore,  as  I  am  bound. 
Receive  it  from  me : — I  speak  not  yet  of  proof. 
Look  to  your  wife  ;  observe  her  well  with  Cassio ; 
Wear  your  eyes'*  thus, — not  jealous,  nor  secure ; 
I  would  not  have  your  free  and  no])le  nature, 
Out  of  self-bounty,  be  abus'd;  look  to't : 
I  know  our  country  disposition  well ; 
In  Venice  they  do  let  heaven  see  the  pranks 
They  dare  not  show  their  husbands ;  their  best 

conscience 
Is  not  to  leave  undone,  but  keep  unknown. 

Oth.  Dost  thou  say  so  ? 

lago.  She  did  deceive  her  father,  marrying  you ; 
And  when  she  seem'd  to  shake  and  fear  your 

looks. 
She  lov'd  them  most. 

Oth.  And  so  she  did. 

lago.  Why,  go  to,  then  ; 

She  that  so  young  could  give  out  such  a  seeming, 
To  seel  her  father's  eyes  up,  close  as  oak. 
He  thought  'twas  witchcraft : — But  I  am  much 

to  blame ; 
I  humbly  do  beseech  you  of  your  pardon. 
For  too  much  loving  you. 

Oth.  I  am  bound  to  thee  for  ever. 

lago.  I    see,  this  hath  a  little  dash'd  your 
spirits. 

Oth.  Not  a  jot,  not  a  jot. 

lago.  Trust  me,  I  fear  it  has. 

I  hope  you  will  consider  what  is  spoke 
Comes  from  my  love  : — But,  I  do  see  you  are 

mov'd : — 
I  am  to  pray  you  not  to  strain  my  speech 

Latin  e.vsufflare,  to  spit  down  upon,  an  ancient  form  of 
exorcising,  and  figuratively  to  spit  out  in  abhorrence  or 
contempt.  Exsufflicate  may  thus  signify  contemptible. 
Richardson,  in  his  admirable  Dictionary,  somewhat  dissents 
from  this  ;  considering  the  word  "  not  improbably  a  misprint 
for  exsufflate,  i.  e.  effiale  or  efflated,  puffed  out,  and,  con- 
sequently, exaggerated,  extravagant, — to  which  bluued  is 
added,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  a  second  epithet,  with  a 
new  meaning,  as  of  giving  emphasis  to  the  first." 

•  Dances.    The  quarto  adds,  well— a.  most  weak  addition. 

*>  Eyes.    The  quarto,  eye. 

293 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO, 


[Scene  III. 


To  grosser  issues,  nor  to  larger  reach, 
Than  to  suspicion, 

0th.  I  will  not. 

lago.  Should  you  do  so,  my  lord, 

My  speech  should  fall  into  such  vile  success  * 
Which  my  thoughts  aim'd  not,""     Cassio's  my 

worthy  friend : — 
My  lord,  I  see  you  are  mov'd. 

0th.  No,  not  much  mov'd : — 

I  do  not  think  but  Desdemona's  honest. 

lago.  Long  live  she  so !  and  long  live  you  to 
think  so ! 

0th.  And  yet,  how  nature  en-ing  from  itself, — 

lago.  Ay,  there's  the  point : — As, — to  be  bold 
with  you, — 
Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree  ; 
Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends : 
Foil !  one  may  smell  in  such  a  will  most  rank. 
Foul  disproportions,  thoughts  unnatural, — 
But,  pardon  me ;  I  do  not  in  position 
Distinctly  speak  of  her :  though  I  may  fear, 
Her  will,  recoiling  to  her  better  judgment. 
May  fall  to  match  you  with  her  country  forms. 
And,  happily,  repent. 

0th.  Farewell,  farewell  : 

If  more  thou  dost  perceive  let  me  know  more  ; 
Set  on  thy  wife  to  observe  :  Leave  me,  lago. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  take  my  leave,  [  Going. 

0th.  Why  did  I  marry  ? — This  honest  crea- 
ture, doubtless, 
Sees   and  knows  more,   much  more,   than   he 
unfolds. 

lago.  My  lord,  I  would  I  might  entreat  your 
honour 
To  scan  this  thing  no  farther ;  leave  it  to  time  : 
Although  'tis  fit  that  Cassio  have  his  place, 
(For,  sure,  he  fills  it  up  with  great  ability,) 
Yet,  if  you  please  to  hold  him  off  awhile, 
You  shall  by  that  perceive  him  and  his  means  : 
Note,  if  your  lady  strain  his  entertainment 
With  any  strong  or  vehement  importunity; 
Much  will  be  seen  in  that.     In  the  mean  time. 
Let  me  be  thought  too  busy  in  my  fears, 
(As  worthy  cause  I  have  to  fear  I  am,) 
And  hold  her  free,  I  do  beseech  your  honour. 

0th.  Fear  not  my  government. 

lago.  I  once  more  take  my  leave,  [Exit. 

0th.  This  fellow  's  of  exceeding  honesty, 
And  knows  all  qualities,'^  with  a  learned  spirit. 
Of  hviman  dealings  :  If  I  do  prove  her  haggard, 

"  Success — succession — consequence. 

^  The  quarto.  As  my  thoughts  aim  not  at. 

'  Qualities.     So  the  quarto.     The  folio,  quantities. 

294 


Though  that  her  jesses  were  my  dear   heart- 
strings, 
I'd  whistle  her  off,  and  let  her  down  the  wind. 
To  prey  at  fortune,"     Haply,  for  I  am  black; 
And  have  not  those  soft  parts  of  conversation 
That  chamberers  have  :  Or,  for  I  am  declin'd 
Into  the  vale  of  years ; — yet  that's  not  much ; — 
She's  gone  ;  I  am  abus'd ;  and  my  relief 
Must  be  to  loath  her.     O  cvu-se  of  marriage. 
That  we  can  call  these  delicate  creatures  ours, 
And  not  their  appetites  !     I  had  rather  be  a  toad, 
And  live  upon  the  vapour  of  a  dungeon. 
Than  keep  a  corner  in  the  thing  I  love. 
For  other's  uses.     Yet  'tis  the  plague  of  great 

ones; 
Prerogativ'd  are  they  less  than  the  base  ; 
'Tis  destiny  unshunnable,  like  death ; 
Even  then  this  forked  plague  is  fated  to  us. 
When  we  do  quicken.    Look,  where  she  comes:'' 

Enter  Desdemona  and  Emilia, 

If  she  be  false,  O,  then  heaven  mocks  itself  I  •= — 
I'll  not  believe  't. 

Des.  How  now,  my  dear  Othello  ? 

Your  dinner,  and  the  generous  islanders 
By  you  invited,  do  attend  your  presence, 

0th.  I  am  to  blame. 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  faintly  ?•* 

Are  you  not  well  ? 

0th.  I  have  a  pain  vipon  my  forehead  here, 

Des.  Why,  that's  with  watching  ;  'twill  away 
again : 
Let  me  but  bind  it  hard,  within  this  hour 
It  will  be  well, 

0th.  Your  napkin^  is  too  little  ; 

\_He  puts  the  handkerchief  from  him,  and 
it  drops. 
Let  it  alone.     Come,  I'll  go  in  with  you, 

»  Tlie  images  in  this  sentence  are  derived  from  falconry. 
Some  doubts  exist  whether  the  haggard  was  an  unreclaimed 
hawk  ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  old  adjecti\  e  haggard 
means  wild.  The  Jesses  are  the  footstraps  of  a  hawk.  The 
remainder  of  the  passage  may  be  illustrated  by  a  quotation 
from  Uryden  (^Annus  Mirabilis)  : — 

"  Have  you  not  seen,  when  whistled  from  the  fist. 
Some  falcon  stoops  at  what  her  eye  design'd. 
And,  %\  ith  her  eagerness  the  quarry  miss'd. 

Straight  flies  at  check,  and  clips  it  down  the  wind." 

•>  The  quarto,  Desdemona  comes. 

"  This  is  the  reading  of  the  quarto.  The  folio  reads, — 
"  If  she  be  false,  heaven  mock'd  itself!" 
By  the  reading  of  the  folio  we  may  understand  tliat,  if 
Desdemona  be  false, — be  not  what  she  appears  to  be, — 
heaven  at  her  creation,  instead  of  giving  an  image  of  itself, 
mocked  itself, — gave  a  false  image.  Tlie  reading  of  the 
quarto  is  more  forcible  and  natural. 

"•  The  quarto,  Jf^hi/  is  your  speech  so  faint  ? 

"  NaphinnxiAhandherchief  were  sywonyxaoMS.  The  expres- 
sion was  used  as  recently  as  the  date  of  tlie  Scotch  proceed- 
ings in  the  Douglas  cause,  in  which  we  find  a  lady  de- 
scribed as  constiintly  dressed  in  a  hoop,  with  a  large  napkin 
on  her  breast.  (Warner's  '  Plan  of  a  Glossary  to  Shak- 
speare,'  1768.)  A  pocket-handkerchief  is  still  a  pochet- 
napkin  in  Scotland. 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  III. 


Des.  I  am  very  sorry  that  you  are  not  well. 
\^Exeitnt  Oth.  and  Des. 

Emil.  I  am  glad  I  have  found  tliis  napkin ; 
This  was  her  first  remembrance  from  the  Moor  : 
Mjr  wayward  husband  hath  a  hundred  times 
Woo'd  me  to  steal  it:  but  she  so  loves  the  token, 
(For  he  conjur'd  her  she  should  ever  keep  it,) 
That  she  reserves  it  evermore  about  her, 
To  kiss,  and  talk  to.     I'll  have  the  work  ta'en 

out,* 
And  give  't  lago ;  what  he  will  do  with  it, 
Heaven  knows,  not  I : 
I  nothing,  but  to  please  his  fantasy. 

Enter  Iago. 

lago.  How  now  !  what  do  you  here  alone  ? 

Eviil.  Do  not  you  chide ;  I  have  a  thing  for 
you. 

Iago.  A   thing  for  me? — it  is    a    common 
thing — 

Emil.  Ha! 

Iago.  To  have  a  foolish  wife. 

Emil.  O,  is  that  all  ?     What  will  you  give  me 
now 
For  that  same  handkerchief? 

Iago.  What  handerchief  ? 

Emil.  What  handkerchief? 
Why,  that  the  Moor  first  gave  to  Desdemona ; 
That  which  so  often  you  did  bid  me  steal. 

Iago.  Hast  stolen  it  from  her  ? 

Emil.  No ;  but  she  let  it  drop  by  negligence  : 
And,  to  the  advantage,  I,  being  here,  took't  up. 
Look,  here  it  is. 

Iago.  A  good  wench  ;  give  it  me. 

Emil.  What  will  you  do  with 't,  that  you  have 
been  so  earnest 
To  have  me  filch  it  ? 

Iago.  Why,  what's  that  to  you  ? 

\_Snatching  it. 

Emil.  If  it  be  not  for  some  purpose  of  import, 
Giv  't  me  again  :  Poor  lady !  she'll  run  mad 
When  she  shall  lack  it. 

Iago.  Be  not  acknown  on't : ''  I  have  use  for  it. 
Go,  leave  me.  \_Exit  Emilia. 

I  will  in  Cassio's  lodging  lose  this  napkin, 
And  let  him  find  it :  Trifles,  light  as  air, 
Are  to  the  jealous  confirmations  strong 


•  Emilia  does  not  propose  to  obliterate  the  work,  but  to 
copy  the  work,  aud  to  restore  tlie  original  to  Desdemona. 
lago's  abrupt  address  frightens  her  from  her'purpose.  That 
ta'en  out  means  copied,  we  tind  in  the  subsequent  scene, 

when  Cassio  says  to  Bianca,  take  me  this  work  out 

I'd  have  it  copied. 

^  The  quarto  reads — Be  not  you  known  oft.  The  more 
poetical  word,  acknoivn,  is  used  in  a  similar  manner  in  the 
'  Life  of  Ariosto,'  subjoined  to  Sir  John  Harrington's  '  Trans- 
lation,' 1607  : — "  Some  say  he  was  married  to  her  privily, 
but  durst  not  be  acknown  of  it." 


As  proofs  of  holy  writ.  This  may  do  something. 
The  Moor  already  changes  with  my  poison  : 
Dangerous  conceits  are,  in  their  natures,  poisons, 
Which,  at  the  first,  are  scarce  found  to  distaste  ; 
But,  with  a  little  act  upon  the  blood, 
Burn  like  the  mines  of  sulphur. — I  did  say  so" — 
Look,  where  he  comes!     Not  poppy,  nor  man- 

dragora,** 
Nor  all  the  drowsy  syrups  of  the  world, 
Shall  ever  medicine  thee  to  that  sweet  sleep 
Which  thou  ow'dst  yesterday. 

Enter  Othello. 

Oth.  Ha!  ha!  false  tome? 

Iago.  Why,  how  now,  general  ?  no  more  of 
that. 

Oth.  Avaunt !  be  gone !  thou  hast  set  me  on 
the  rack : — 
I  swear,  'tis  better  to  be  much  abus'd, 
Than  but  to  know  't  a  little. 

Iago.  How  now,  my  lord? 

Oth.  What  sense  had  I  in  "^  her  stolen  hours  of 
lust? 
I  saw 't  not,  thought  it  not,  it  harm'd  not  me  : 
I   slept  the  next  night  well,  fed  well,"^  was  free 

and  merry; 
I  found  not  Cassio's  kisses  on  her  lips  : 
He  that  is  robb'd,  not  wanting  what  is  stolen. 
Let  him  not  know  't,  and  he's  not  robb'd  at  all. 

Iago.  I  am  sony  to  hear  this. 

Oth.  I  had  been  happy,  if  the  general  camp, 
Pioneers  and  all,  had  tasted  her  sweet  body. 
So  I  had  nothing  known  :  O  now,  for  ever, 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  !  farewell  content ! 
Farewell  the  plumed  troops,  "=  and  the  big  wars, 

*  I  did  say  so.  These  words  are  simply  used  in  the  com- 
mon sense — I  said  so — I  was  right.  Iago  has  been  describ- 
ing the  effect  of"  dangerous  conceits;"  and  when  he  sees 
Othello  approaching,  with  a  perturbed  demeanour,  he  ex- 
claims triumphantly,  "  I  did  say  so — look  where  he  comes." 
lu  the  old  copies,  and  in  tlie  modern  also,  the  stage  direction 
— Enter  Othello — is  placed  before  look  tvhere  he  comes ;  we 
have  removed  it  to  the  close  of  lago's  speech. 

I"  Mandragora.  The  mandrake  was  used  by  the  ancients 
as  a  powerful  opiate.  So  in  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra,' 
Act  I.  Sc.  VI. — 

"  Give  me  to  drink  mandragora, 

Tliat  I  may  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time 
My  Antony  is  away." 

"=  In.  The  quarto,  of.  Sense  of  is  the  modern  use  of  the 
term,  knowledge  of;  sense  -in  is  the  more  proper  and  pecu- 
liarly Shaksperiau  use,  which  implies  the  impression  upon 
the  senses,  and  not  upon  the  understanding.  The  difference 
is  the  same  as  between  a  sensible  man,  and  a  man  sensible  to 
pain. 

<i  Fed  well.  The  quarto  has  not  these  words,  and  they  are 
not  found  in  modern  editions..  Their  rejection  by  the  editors 
can  only  be  accounted  for  by  the  fiict,  that  they  would  make 
any  sacrifice  of  sense  or  poetry,  and  prefer  the  feeblest  to 
the  strongest  expression,  if  they  could  prevent  the  intrusion 
of  a  line  exceeding  ten  syllables.  This  sacrifice,  for  tlie  sake 
of  a  tame  aud  uniform  rhythm,  is  even  more  ludicrous  when 
they  strive  to  make  an  heroic  line  out  of  the  broken  sen- 
tences of  two  or  more  speakers ;  as  in  the  instance  in  this  act 
where  honest  is  omitted. 

"  Troops.    The  quarto,  troop. 

295 


Act  hi.] 


OTHELLO. 


fScENK  III. 


That  make  ambition  virtue  !  O,  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  tlie  shrill  trvimp, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife, ' 
The  royal  banner  ;  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war ! 
And  O  you  mortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  immortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeit. 
Farewell!  Othello's  occupation's  gone! 

lago.  Is  't  possible,  my  lord  ? 

0th.  Villain,  be  sure  thou  prove  my  love  a 
whore ; 
Be  sure  of  it;  give  me  the  ocular  proof; 

[Taldnff  him  by  the  throat. 
Or,  by  the  worth  of  mine  eternal  soul, 
Thou  hadst  been  better  have  been  born  a  dog 
Than  answer  my  wak'd  wrath. 

lago.  Is  't  come  to  this  ? 

0th.  Make   me   see  't ;    or,   at  the  least,   so 
prove  it, 
That  the  probation  bear  no  liinge,  nor  loop. 
To  hang  a  doubt  on  :  or  woe  upon  thy  life  ! 

lago.  My  noble  lord, — 

0th.  If  thou  dost  slander  her,  and  torture  me, 
Never  pray  more  :  abandon  all  remorse  ; 
On  horror's  head  horrors  accumulate  : 
Do  deeds  to  make  heaven  weep,  all  earth  amaz'd, 
For  nothing  canst  thou  to  damnation  add. 
Greater  than  that. 

lago.  O  grace !  O  heaven  forgive  "  me  ! 

Are  you  a  man  ?  have  you  a  soul,  or  sense  ? — 
God  be  wi'  you;  take  mine  office. — O  wretched 

fool. 
That  lov'st''  to  make  thine  honesty  a  vice! — 

0  monstrous  world  !     Take  note,  take  note,  O 

world. 
To  be  direct  and  honest  is  not  safe. 

1  thank  you  for  this  profit ;  and,  from  hence, 
ril  love  no  friend,  sith  love  breeds  such  offence. 

0th.  Nay,  stay  : — Thou  shovdd'st  be  honest. 

lago.  I  should  be  wise  ;  for  honesty's  a  fool, 
And  loses  that  it  works  for. 

0th.  "^  By  the  world, 

I  think  my  wife  be  honest,  and  think  she  is  not; 
I  think  that  thou  art  just,  and  think  thou  art  not; 
I'll  have  some  proof:  My  name,"*  that  was  as 
fresh 

"  Forgive.     Tlie  quavto,  defend. 

<>  Luv'sf.  The  quaito,  liv'st,  wliicli  the  modern  editors 
adopt.  Surely  the  mun  that  loves  to  carry  his  honesty  so  far 
that  it  becomes  a  vice  is  what  lago  means  wlien  he  calls 
himself  afoot. 

'  Tliis  fine  speech  of  Othello  is  only  found  in  the  folio. 

^  My  name.  In  all  modern  editions,  except  Howe's,  this 
has  been  changed  into  her  name.  There  is  probably  not  a 
more  fatal  corruption  of  the  meaning  of  the  poet  amongst  the 
thousand  corruptions  for  which  liis  editors  are  answerable. 
It  destroys  the  master-key  to  Othello's  character.  It  is  liis 
intense  feeling  of  honour  tliat  makes  his  wife's  supposed  fault 
so  terrific  to  him.     It  is  not  that  Desdemona's  name  is  be- 

296 


As  Dian's  visage,  is  now  begrim'd  and  black 
As  mine  own  face. — If  there  be  cords,  or  knives, 
Poison,  or  fire,  or  suffocating  streams, 
I'll  not  endure  it. — Would  I  were  satisfied ! 

lago.  I  see,  sir,  you  are  eaten  up  with  passion : 
I  do  repent  me  that  I  put  it  to  you. 
You  would  be  satisfied  ? 

0th.  Would  ?  nay,  and  I  will. 

lago.  And   may :    But  how  ?   how  satisfied, 
my  lord  ? 
Would  you  the  supervision "  grossly  gape  on  ? 
Behold  her  topp'd ! 

Otk.  Death  and  damnation  !  O  ! 

lago.  It  were  a  tedious  difficulty,  I  think, 
Tobring  them  to  that  prospect :  Damn  them  then, 
If  ever  mortal  eyes  do  see  them  bolster. 
More  than  their  own  !  What  then  ?  how  then  ? 
What  shall  I  say  ?  Where 's  satisfaction  ? 
It  is  impossible  you  should  see  this, 
Were  they  as  prime  as  goats,  as  hot  as  monkeys, 
As  salt  as  wolves  in  pride,  and  fools  as  gross 
As  ignorance  made  drunk.     But  yet,  I  say, 
If  imputation,  and  strong  circumstances. 
Which  lead  directly  to  the  door  of  truth, 
Will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  might''  have't. 

0th.  Give  me  a  living  reason  she's  disloyal. 

lago.  I  do  not  like  the  office  : 
But,  sith  I  am  enter'd  in  this  cause  so  far, 
Prick'd  to't  by  foolish  honesty  and  love, 
I  will  go  on.     I  lay  with  Cassio  lately  ; 
And,  being  troubled  with  a  raging  tooth, 
I  could  not  sleep. 

There  are  a  kind  of  men  so  loose  of  soul. 
That  in  their  sleeps  will  mutter  their  affairs  ; 
One  of  this  kind  is  Cassio  : 
In  sleep  I  heard  him  say, — Sweet  Desdemona, 
Let  us  be  wary,  let  us  hide  our  loves  ! 
And  'then,  sir,  would  he  gripe  and  wring  my 

hand. 
Cry, — O  sweet  creature  !  then  kiss  me  hard, 
As  if  he  pluck'd  up  kisses  by  the  roots, 
That  grew  upon  my  lips ;   lay  his  leg  o'er  my 

thigh. 
And  sigh,  and  kiss  ;  and  then  cry, — Cursed  fate 
That  gave  thee  to  the  Moor  !  <= 

grimed  and  black,  but  that  7ji's  oivn  name  is  degraded. 
Tliis  onethought,  here  for  the  first  time  exhibited,  pervades  all 
the  rest  of  the  play  ;  and  when  we  undersUmd  how  the  poi- 
son operates  upon  Othello's  mind,  we  are  quite  prepared 
fully  to  believe  him  when  he  says,  in  conclusion, — 

"  For  nought  I  ilid  in  hate,  but  all  in  honour." 
The  thought  that  his  own  name  is  now   tarnished  drives 
him  at  once  into  a  phrenzy.      He  has  said,   "  Ftl  have  some 
proof;"   but  the  moment  that  the  idea  of  dishonour  comes 
across  his  sensitive  nature,  he  bursts  into  uncontrolled  fury  : — 

"  If  there  be  cords,  or  knives, 

Poison,  or  fire,  or  suffocating  streams, 
I'll  nut  endure  it." 
»  Supervision.     The  quarto,  supervisor. 
b  Might.    Tlie  quarto,  may. 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  HI. 


0th.  O  monstrous !  monstrous !   I 

lago.  Nay,  this  was  but  his  dream. 

0th.  But  this  denoted  a  foregone  conchision ; 
'Tis  a  shrewd  doubt,  though  it  be  but  a  dream. 

lago.  And  this  may  help  to  thicken    other 
proofs. 
That  do  demonstrate  thinly. 

0th.  I'll  tear  her  all  to  pieces. 

lago.  Nay,  but  be  wise  ;  yet  we  see  nothing 
done ; 
She  may  be  honest  yet.     Tell  me  but  this, — 
Have  you  not  sometimes  seen  a  handkerchief, 
Spotted  with  strawberries,  in  your  wife's  hand? 

0th.  I  gave  her  such  a  one;  'twas  my  first 
gift. 

lago.  I   know  not  that :   but  such   a  hand- 
kerchief, 
(I  am  sure  it  was  your  wife's,)  did  I  to-day 
See  Cassio  wipe  his  beard  with. 

0th.  If  it  be  that,— 

lago.  If  it  be  that  or  any,  if 't  was*  her's, 
It  speaks  against  her,  with  the  other  proofs. 

0th.  O,  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand  lives  ; 
One  is  too  poor,  too  weak  for  my  revenge  ! 
Now  do  I  see  'tis  true. — Look  here,  lago ; 
All  my  fond  love  thus  I  do  blow  to  heaven  : 
'Tis  gone. — 

Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  the  hollow  hell  I '' 
Yield  up,  O  love,  thy  crown,  and  hearted  throne. 
To   tyrannous  hate  !    swell,   bosom,    with   thy 

fraught, 
For  'tis  of  aspicks'  tongues  ! 

lago.  Yet,  be  content. 

0th.  O,  blood,  blood,  blood  ! 

lago.    Patience,     I    say;    your    mind    may 
change."^ 

"  If  't  teas  hers-  Tliis  is  the  reading  of  the  second-folio. 
Tlie  quarto  and  the  first  folio  have,  if  ivas  her's, — clearly  an 
error.     Malone  corrected  it  to  tliat  was  her's. 

■>  From  the  hollow  hell.  The  commentators  were  aware 
that  this  was  the  reading  of  the  folio,  yet  they  adopted  thi/ 
hollow  cell,  from  the  quarto.  Warburton  saw  that  hvlloir,  :is 
applied  to  cell,  was  "a  poor  unmeaning  epithet;"  and  he 
therefore  gives  us  th'  unhalloiv'd  cell.  It  seems  perfectly  in- 
credible tliat  .lohnson,  Steevens,  and  Malone,  should  have 
rejected  the  magnificent  reading  of  the  hollow  hell.  Capell 
is  the  only  one  who  has  the  taste  to  adopt  it.  If  the  reading, 
from  the  hollow  hell,  had  failed  to  impress  the  commentators 
by  its  power,  the  imitations  of  it  by  Milton  ouglit  to  have 
rendered  it  sacred ; — 


And 


"  He  call'd  so  loud  that  all  the  hollow  deep 
Of  hell  resounded." 

"  The  universal  host  up  sent 
A  shout  that  tore  hell's  concave." 


But  let  us  only  mark,  tlie  opposition  of  the  two  lines  : — 
"  All  my  fond  love  thus  do  I  blow  to  heaven. 
Arise,  black  vengeance,  from  the  lioUow  hell." 
Surely  this  alone  should  have  been  enough  to  have  secured 
us  what  Sh:ikspere  wrote. 
<^  Tlie  reading  of  the  quarto  is — 
"  Ingo.  Pray,  be  content. 
Otfi.  O,  blood.  lago,  blood  ! 

lago.  Patience,  I  say;  your  mind,  perAaps,  may  change." 


0th.  Never,  lago.''     Like  to  the  Politick  sea, 
Whose  icy  current  and  compulsive  course 
Ne'er  keeps'*  retiring  ebb,  but  keeps  due  on 
To  the  Propontick  and  the  Hellespont ; 
Even  so  my  bloody  thoughts,  with  violent  pace. 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge 
Swallow  them  up. — Now,  by  youd'  marble  hea- 
ven, 
In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow     \_Kneels. 
I  here  engage  my  words. 

lago.  Do  not  rise  yet. — 

[^Kneels. 
Witness,  you  ever-burning  lights  above  ! 
You  elements  that  clip  us  round  about ! 
Witness,  that  here  lago  doth  give  up 
The  execution  of  his  wit,  hands,  heart. 
To  wrong'd  Othello's  service  !  let  him  command. 
And  to  obey  shall  be  in  me  remorse, 
What  bloody  business  ever'^ — 

0th.  I  greet  thy  love. 

Not   with    vain   thanks,    but    with   acceptance 

bounteous. 
And  will  upon  the  instant  put  thee  to  't : 
Within  these  three  days  let  me  hear  thee  say 
That  Cassio's  not  alive. 

lago.  My  friend  is  dead  ;  'tis  done,  at  your 
request : 
But  let  her  live. 

0th.        Damn  her,  lewd  minx  !  O,  damn  her! 
Come,  go  with  me  apart;   I  will  withdraw, 
To  furnish  me  with  some  swift  means  of  death 
For  the  fair  devil.   Now  art  thou  my  lieutenant. 

lago.  I  am  your  own  for  ever.  [^Exeunt. 


*  The  glorious  passage  from  "  lAhe  to  the  Pontick  sea"  to 
"  swalloiv  them  up,'\is  not  found  in  the  quarto.  Pope  would 
also  omit  it,  "  as  an  unnatural  excursion."  Steevens  sup- 
ports the  proposed  rejection  in  his  characteristic  manner: — 
"  Every  reader  will,  I  durst  say,  abide  by  Mr.  Pope's  cen- 
sure on  this  passage.  When  Sliakspeare  greiv  acquainted 
with  such  particulars  of  kuowledge,  he  made  a  display  of 
them  as  soon  as  opportunity  offered.  He  found  this  in  the 
second  Book  and  97tli  chapter  of  Plinys  '  Natural  History,' 
as  translated  by  Philemon  Holland,  1601  : — '  And  the  sea 
Pontus  evermore  floweth  and  runneth  out  into  Propontis, 
but  the  sea  never  ret  ireth  back  again  within  Pontus.'"  It 
is  delightful  to  see  how  Sliakspere's  knowledge  impresses 
itself,  even  in  technicalities,  upon  practical  men  whose  minds 
are  not  clouded  by  the  low  pedantry  of  such  critics  as 
Steevens.  A  gentleman  wlio  writes  to  us  as  "  a  sailor,"  begs 
us  to  notice  this  passage  as  exhibiting  a  proof  of  tlie  poet's 
knowledge  "  of  tlie  continual  flow  of  the  tide  through  the 
Gut  of  Gibraltar." 

••  Keeps.  Pope  changed  this  to  feels.  The  repetition  of 
the  word  heeps  would  not  be  objectiouable  if  in  the  first 
instance  it  gave  us  a  clear  meaning — the  same  meaning  as 
in  the  secoiul  instance ;  but  it  is  not  so.  And  yet  feels  does 
not  seem  to  be  the  right  word. 

"  The  quarto,  "  JVhat  bloody  work  soever."  In  both  texts  it 
is  quite  clear  that  Othello  interrupts  the  conclusion  of  lago's 
speech.  At  the  moment  when  he  has  said  that  oliedieneeto 
Othello  shall  stand  in  the  place  of  remorse  (mercy) — "  What 
bloody  business  ever"  (Othello  may  command),  Othello, 
jumping  at  his  meaning,  at  once  sets  him  upon  the  murder 
of  Cassio. 


297 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCENK  IV. 


SCENE  lY.— The  same. 

Enter  Desdemona,  Emilia,  andClovm. 

Des.  Do  you  know,  sirrah,  where  lieutenant 
Cassio  lies  ? 

Clo.  I  dare  not  say  he  lies  any  where. 
Des.  Why,  man  ? 

Clo.  He  is  a  soldier ;  and  for  me  to  say  a 
soldier  lies  is  stabbing. 

Des.  Go  to't.     Where  lodges  he  ? 
Clo.  To  tell  you  where  he  lodges  is  to  tell  you 
where  I  lie. 

Des.  Can  any  thing  be  made  of  this  ? 
Clo.  I  know  not  whei-e  he  lodges  ;   and  for 
me  to  devise  a  lodging,  and  say  he  lies  here,  or 
he  lies  there,  were  to  lie  in  mine  own  throat. 

Des.  Can  you  inquire  him  out,  and  be  edified 
by  report? 

Clo.  I  will  catechize  the  world  for  him  ;  that 
is,  make  questions,  and  by  them  answer. 

Des.  Seek  him,  bid  him  come  hither;  tell 
him,  I  have  moved  my  lord  on  his  behalf,  and 
hope  all  will  be  well. 

Clo.  To  do  this  is  within  the  compass  of  man's 
wit ;  and  therefore  I  will  attempt  the  doing  it. 

\_Exit. 
Des.  Where  should  I  lose  the  handkerchief, 

Emilia  1 
Emil.  I  know  not,  madam. 
Des.  Believe  me,  I  had  rather  have  lost  my 
purse 
Full  of  ci'uzadoes.^     And,  but  my  noble  Moor 
Is  true  of  mind,  and  made  of  no  such  baseness 
As  jealous  creatures  are,  it  were  enough 
To  put  him  to  ill  thinking. 

Emil.  Is  he  not  jealous  ? 

Des.  Who,  he?   I  think  the   sun,  where  he 
was  born. 
Drew  all  such  humours  from  him. 

Einil.  Look  where  he  comes. 

Des.  I  will  not  leave  him  now,  till  Cassio 
Be  call'd  to  him. — How  is  't  with  you,  my  lord? 

Enter  Othello. 

0th.  Well,  my  good  lady ; — \_Aside.']  O,  hard- 
ness, to  dissemble  ! — 
How  do  you,  Desdemona  ? 

Des.  Well,  my  good  lord. 

0th.  Give  me  your  hand  :  This  hand  is  moist, 
my  lady. 

Des.  It  yet  has  felt  no  age,  nor  known  no 
sorrow. 

0th.  This    argues  fruitfulness,    and    liberal 
heart ; 
Hot,  hot,  and  moist :  This  hand  of  yours  requires 
298 


A  sequester  from  liberty,  fasting  and  prayer. 
Much  castigation,  exercise  devout ; 
For  here's  a  young  and  sweating  devil  here. 
That  commonly  rebels.     'Tis  a  good  hand, 
A  frank  one. 

Des.  You  may,  indeed,  say  so ; 

For  'twas  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart. 
0th.  A  liberal  hand  :  The  hearts  of  old  gave 
hands : 
But  our  new  heraldry  is — hands,  not  hearts.^ 
Des.  I  cannot  speak  of  this.    Come  now  your 

promise. 
0th.  What  promise,  chuck  ? 
Des.  I  have  sent  to  bid  Cassio  come   speak 

with  you. 
0th.  I  have  a  salt  and  sorry*  rheum  oiFends 
me ; 
Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 
Des.  Here,  my  lord. 

0th.  That  which  I  gave  you. 
Des.  I  have  it  not  about  me. 

0th.  Not? 

Des.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

0th.  That  is  a  fault : 

That  handkerchief'' 
Did  an  Egyptian  to  my  mother  give  ; 
She  was  a  charmer,  and  could  almost  read 
The  thoughts  of  people  :  she  told  her,  while  she 

kept  it, 
'T would  make  her  amiable,   and  subdue  my 

father 
Entirely  to  her  love ;  but  if  she  lost  it, 
Or  made  a  gift  of  it,  my  father's  eye 
Should  hold  her  loathly,*'  and  his  spirits  should 

hunt 
After  new  fancies  :  She,  dying,  gave  it  me  ; 
And  bid  me,  when  my  fate  would  have  me  wive. 
To  give  it  her.     I  did  so  :  and  take  heed  on't. 
Make  it  a  darling  like  your  precious  eye  ; 
To  lose  't  or  give  't  away,  were  such  perdition 
As  nothing  else  could  match. 

Des.  Is  't  possible  ? 

0th.  'Tis  true :  There 's  magic  in  the  web  of  it : 
A  sibyl,  that  had  number'd  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course  *^  two  hundred  compasses. 
In  her  pi-ophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work  : 
The  worms  were  hallow'd  that  did  breed  the  silk; 
And  it  was  dy'd  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maidens'  hearts. 

Des.  Indeed  I  is  't  true  ? 

0th.  Most  veritable ;  therefore  look  to 't  well. 
Des.  Then  'would  to  heaven  that  I  had  never 
seen  it. 

*  Surry.    The  quarto,  sullen. 

b  Loathly.    So  the  quarto.    The  folio,  loathed. 

"^  Course.    The  quarto,  make. 


Act  hi.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SOENE    IV. 


OtJi.  Ha !  wherefore  ? 

Des.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startingly  and  rash  ? 

0th.  Is't  lost?  is't  gone?   speak,  is't  out  of 
the  way  ? 

Des.  Bless  us ! 

0th.  Say  you? 

Des.  It  is  not  lost :  But  what  and  if  it  were  ? 

0th.  How? 

Des.  I  say,  it  is  not  lost. 

0th.  Fetch  't,  let  me  see  it. 

Des.  Why,  so  I  can,  sir,  hut  I  will  not  now ; 
This  is  a  trick,  to  put  me  from  my  suit; 
Pray  you,  let  Cassio  be  received  again. 

0th.  Fetch  me  the  handerchief:   my  mind 
misgives. 

Des.  Come,  come ; 
You'll  never  meet  a  more  sufficient  man, 

0th.  The  handkerchief. — 

Des.  [I  pray,  talk  me  of  Cassio. 

0th.  The  handkerchief, — ]  "^ 

Des.  A  man  that,  all  his  time, 

Hath  founded  his  good  fortunes  on  your  love, 
Shar'd  dangers  with  you  ; — 

0th.  The  handkerchief, — 

Des.  In  sooth,  you  are  to  blame. 

0th.  Away!  [£a;27  Othello. 

Emil.  Is  not  this  man  jealous  ? 

Des.  I  ne'er  saw  this  before. 
Sure,  there's  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief; 
I  am  most  unhappy  in  the  loss  of  it. 

Emil.  'Tis  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man : 
They  are  all  but  stomachs,  and  we  all  but  food ; 
They  eat  us  hungerly,  and  when  they  are  full 
They   belch  us.     Look  you  !   Cassio,  and  my 
husband. 

Enter  Iago  and  Cassio. 

lago.  There  is  no  other  way;  'tis  she  must  do 't; 
And,  lo,  the  happiness  I  go,  and  importune  her. 

Des.  How  now,  good  Cassio  ?  what's  the  news 
with  you  ? 

Cos.  Madam,  my  former  suit :  I  do  beseech 
you. 
That,  by  your  virtuous  means,  I  may  again 
Exist,  and  be  a  member  of  his  love. 
Whom  I,  with  all  the  office''  of  my  heart, 
Entirely  honour ;  I  would  not  be  delay'd  : 
If  my  offence  be  of  such  mortal  kind. 
That  nor  my'^  service  past,  nor  present  sorrows. 
Nor  purpos'd  merit  in  futurity 
Can  ransom  me  into  his  love  again. 
But  to  know  so  must  be  my  benefit ; 


The  lines  in  brackets  arc  in  the  quarto  only. 
Office.    The  quarto,  duty. 
Nur  my.     The  quarto,  neither. 


So  shall  I  clothe  me  in  a  forc'd  content. 
And  shut*  myself  up  in  some  other  course. 
To  fortune's  alms. 

Des.  Alas  !  thrice-gentle  Cassio, 

My  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune ; 
My  lord  is  not  my  lord ;  nor  should  I  know  him, 
Were  he  in  favour,  as  in  humour,  alter'd. 
So  help  me  every  spirit  sanctified. 
As  I  have  spoken  for  you  all  my  best. 
And  stood  within  the  blank  of  his  displeasure. 
For  my   free   speech !     You  must  a  while  be 

patient : 
What  I  can  do  I  will ;  and  more  I  will. 
Than  for  myself  I  dare  :  let  that  suffice  you. 

Iago.  Is  my  lord  angry  ? 

Emil.  He  went  hence  but  now. 

And,  certainly,  in  strange  unquietness. 

Iago.  Can  he  be   angry?     I  have   seen   the 
cannon. 
When  it  hath  blown  his  ranks  into  the  air  ; 
And,  like  the  devil,  from  his  very  arm 
PufT'd  his  own  brother ; — And  can  he  be  angry? 
Something  of  moment,  then  :    I  will  go  meet  him ; 
There's  matter  in't  indeed,  if  he  be  angry. 

Des.  I  prithee,   do  so. — Something,  sure,  of 
state,  l^Exit  Iago. 

Either  from  Venice  ;  or  some  unhatch'd  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him. 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit :  and,  in  such  cases, 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things. 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object.  'Tis  even  so; 
For  let  our  finger  ache,  and  it  indues 
Our  other  healthful  members  ev'n  to  a  sense '' 
Of  pain  :  Nay,  we  must  think  men  are  not  gods; 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observancy 
As  fits  the  bridal. — Beshrew  me  much,  Emilia, 
1  was  (unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am*^) 
Arraigning  his  unkindness  with  my  soul ; 
But  now  I  find  I  had  suborn'd  the  witness. 
And  he  's  indited  falsely. 

Emil.  Pray  heaven  it  be  state  matters,  as  you 
think ; 
And  no  conception,  nor  no  jealous  toy. 
Concerning  you. 

Des.  Alas,  the  day!  I  never  gave  him  cause. 

Emil.  Butjealous  souls  will  not  beanswer'dso; 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
Butjealous  for  they  're  jealous:  It  is  a  monster. 
Begot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself. 

Des.  Heaven  keep  the  monster  from  Othello's 
mind ! 

Emil.  Lady,  amen. 

•  Shut.    The  quarto,  shuut. 

I*  A  sense.    The  quarto,  that  sense. 

'  See  Note  on  Act  ii.,  Scene  i. 

299 


Act  III.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  IV. 


Des.  I  will  go  seek  him. — Cassio,  walk  here- 
about: 
If  I  do  find  him  fit,  I'll  move  yom*  suit, 
And  seek  to  effect  it  to  my  uttermost. 
Cas.  I  humbly  thank  your  ladyship. 

\_Exeiint  Desdemona  and  Emilia. 

Enter  Bianca. 

B'lan,  Save  you,  friend  Cassio  ! 

Cas.  What  make  you  from  home? 

How  is  it  with  you,  my  most  fair  Bianca? 
Indeed,  sweet  love,  I  was  coming  to  your  house. 

Bian.  Audi  was  gohig  to  your  lodging,  Cassio. 
What!  keep  a  week  away?  seven  days  and  nights? 
Eight  score  eight  hours  ?  and  lovers'  absent  hours, 
More  tedious  than  the  dial  eight  score  times? 

0  weary  reckoning ! 

Cas.  Pardon  me,  Bianca; 

1  have   this  while  with  leaden  thoughts  been 

press'd; 
But  I  shall,  in  a  more  continuate*  time. 
Strike  off"  this  score  of  absence.     Sweet  Bianca, 
[Giving  her  Desdemona's  handkerchief. 
Take  me  this  work  out.** 

Biati.  O,  Cassio,  whence  came  this? 

This  is  some  token  from  a  newer  friend. 

«  Continuufe.    The  quarto,  convenient.     Contiuuate  time, 
is  time  uninterrupted, 
b  See  Note  on  Scene  in.  of  this  Act. 


To  the  felt  absence  now  I  feel  a  cause. 
Is  't  come  to  this?  Well,  well. 

Cas.  Go  to,  woman ! 

Throw  your  vile  gviesses  in  the  devil's  teeth. 
From  whence  youhavethem.  You  are  jealous  now 
That  this  is  from  some  mistress,  some  remem- 
brance: 
No,  in  good  troth,  Bianca. 

Bia?i.  Why,  whose  is  it  ? 

Cas.  I  know  not,  neither:''  I  found  it  in  my 
chamber. 
I  like  the  work  well :  ere  it  be  demanded, 
(As  like  enough  it  will,)  I'd  have  it  copied: 
Take  it,  and  do  't;  and  leave  me  for  this  time. 

Bian.  Leave  you!  wherefore? 

Cas.  I  do  attend  here  on  the  general ; 
And  think  it  no  addition,  nor  my  wish. 
To  have  him  see  me  woman'd. 

Bian.  Why,  I  pray  you? 

Cas,  Not  that  I  love  you  not. 

Bian.  But  that  you  do  not  love  me. 

I  pray  you,  bring  me  on  the  way  a  little ; 
And  say,  if  I  shall  see  you  soon  at  night. 

Cas.  'Tis  but  a  little  way  that  I  can  bring  you, 
For  I  attend  here:  but  I'll  see  you  soon. 

Bian.  'Tis  very  good:  I   must   be    circum- 
stanc'd.''  \_Exeunt. 

»  Neither.     The  quarto,  sweet. 

^  I  musthe  circunistancd.    I  must  yield  to  circumstances. 


[Venetian  General.] 
"  Farewell  the  plumed  troops.' 


300 


ILLUSTRATIONS    OF    ACT    IIL 


'  Scene  III. — "  The  spirit-stirriiif/  drum,  the  ear- 
piercing  Jife" 
Warton  says  tliat  the  fife  accompanying  tlie 
dinm  is  of  considerable  antiquity  in  tlie  European 
armies,  particularly  in  the  German.  There  is  a 
picture  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum,  painted  in 
1525,  representing  the  siege  of  Pavia,  in  which  we 
see  fifes  and  drums;  and,  in  a  journal  of  the  siege 
of  Boulogne,  1544,  which  is  printed  in  Rymer's 
'  Foedera,'  mention  is  made  of  drttmmes  and  viffleurs 
marching  at  the  head  of  the  king's  army.  At  a 
subsequent  period,  however,  the  fife  was  disused  in 
the  English  armies;  and  was  first  revived,  within 
the  memory  of  man,  says  Warton,  among  our  troops 
by  the  British  guards,  by  order  of  the  Duke  of 
Cumberland,  when  they  were  encamped  at  Maes- 
tricht,  in  1747.  Amongst  the  French  regiments 
the  fife  is  not  found ;  and  those  who  have  wit- 
nessed this  peculiarity  must  have  observed  how  dull, 
and  monotonous,  and  un-spirit-stimnff  is  the  (hum 
witliout  its  ear-piercing  companion.  The  fife  is  so 
completely  unknown  to  the  French  in  the  present 
day,  that  M.  Alfred  de  A'igny,  in  his  translation  of 
this  passage  of  Othello,  gives  us  only  the  drum  : — 

"  Adieu,  beaux  batailluns  aux  panaches  flottants  ; 
Adieu,  guerre,  adieu,  toi  dout  lesjeux  eclatants 
Fout  de  rambition  une  vertu  sublime  ! 
Adieu  done,  le  coursiev  que  la  trompetle  anime, 
Et  ses  henuissements  et  les  bruits  du  tambour, 
1,'etendard  qu'on  deploie  avec  des  cris  d'aniour  !  " 

*  Scene  IV. —  "  /  had  ralher  have  lost  my 

purse 
Full  of  cruzadoesP 
The  cruzado  was  a  Portuguese  coin,  so  called 
from  the  cross  being  stamped  on  it.  Douce  says 
that  it  was  of  gold,  of  the  value  of  9.?.  English  ; 
and  tliat  the  sovereigns  who  struck  this  coin  were 
Emanuel  and  his  son  Jolni.  Douce  adds,  that  "the 
cruzado  was  not  current  at  Venice,  though  it  cer- 
tainly was  in  England  in  the  time  ofShakspere,  who 
lias  here  indulged  his  usual  practice  of  departing 
from  costume."  It  would  have  been  an  exceedingly 
diflicult  thing  for  any  antiquary  of  tlie  last  genera- 
tion not  to  have  indulged  liis  usual  practice  of 
girding  at  Shakspere,  for  some  supposed  violation 
of  propriety.  In  this  case,  we  would  ask,  how  could 
the  cruzado  be  current  in  England,  except  as  an  in- 
strument of  commercial  exchange;  and  how  could 
the  same  instrument  of  exchange  he  kept  out  of 
A'enice,  whose  foreign  trade  at  that  period  was  much 
greater  than  that  of  England? 

3  Scene  IV. —  "  The  hearts  of  old  gave  hands  ; 

But  our  neu'  heraldry  is — hands,  not  hearts." 
James  I.,  in  1611,  created  the  order  of  baronets; 
and,  in  1612,  to  ampliule  his    favour  towards  the 
baronets,    he   granted   them,    by  a  second   patent, 
"  the  arms  of  Ulster,  that  is,  in  a  field  argent,  a 

Tkaoedies. — Vol.  1.        2  W 


hand  geules,  or  a  hlnudie  hand.''''  Spenser  tells  us, 
in  his  '  State  of  Ireland,'  tiiat  "  the  bloody  hand  is 
O'Neel's  badge."  This  was  a  notable  device  of 
James  to  raise  money,  for  the  alleged  purpose  of 
settling  and  improving  tlie  province  of  Ulster;  and 
the  sum  of  money  paid  for  the  patent  upon  each 
creation  was  1095/.,  estimated  as  equivalent  to  the 
support  of  thirty  infantry  for  three  years.  War- 
burton,  with  these  facts  before  him,  says,  "  We  are 
not  to  doubt  but  that  this  was  the  new  heraldry 
alluded  to  by  our  author,  by  which  he  insinuates 
that  some  then  created  had  hands  indeed,  but  not 
hearts;  that  is,  money  to  pay  for  the  creation,  but 
no  virtue  to  purchase  the  honour."  Johnson  and 
Douce  believe  in  the  interpretation  of  Warhurton. 
Steevens  and  Malone  are  opposed  to  it.  In  his 
'  Chronology'  of  the  plays,  Malone  gives  a  passage 
from  the  '  Essays'  of  Sir  William  Cornwallis,  1601, 
which  certainly  has  a  considerable  resemblance  to 
the  passage  in  the  text: — "  We  of  these  later  times, 
full  of  a  nice  curiosity,  mislikeall  the  performances 
of  our  forefathers ;  we  say  they  were  honest  plain 
men,  but  they  want  the  capering  wits  of  this  ripe 
age.  .  .  They  had  wont  to  give  their  hands  and 
their  hearts  together ;  but  we  think  it  a  finer  grace 
to  look  asquint,  our  hand  looking  one  way,  and  our 
heart  another."  One  thing  is  perfectly  certain  : — 
if  the  passage  be  an  allusion  to  the  new  heraldry  of 
the  baronets'  arms,  it  must  have  been  an  interpola- 
tion at  least  ten  years  after  the  first  production  of 
the  play,  for  we  know  that  Othello  was  performed 
before  Elizabeth,  in  1602.  If,  too,  it  were  an  inter- 
polation, it  must  have  displaced  some  otlier  pas- 
sage; for  if  we  omit  these  two  lines  the  context  is 
destroyed.  We  do  not  think  that  Shakspere  would 
have  gone  out  of  his  way  to  introduce  a  covert  sar- 
casm at  a  passing  event,  offensive  as  it  must  have 
been  if  understood,  and  perfectly  useless  if  not  un- 
derstood. The  obvious  meaning  of  the  words, 
without  any  allusion,  is  plain  enough  ;  and  our  new 
heraldry,  if  it  be  any  more  than  a  figurative  expres- 
sion, may  be  easily  referred  to  the  practice  of  quar- 
tering or  joining  the  arms  of  the  husband  and  wife. 

*  Scene  IV. — "  That  handkerch'ief." 

The  description  of  this  tremendous  handkerchief 
in  the  original  Italian  novel  is,  "  lavorato  alia 
morisco  sottilissimamente."  Mrs.  Jameson  thus 
explains  this:  —  "Which,  being  interpreted  into 
modern  English,  means,  I  believe,  nothing  more  than 
that  the  pattern  was  what  we  now  call  arabesque.'''' 
Shakspere  has  expanded  this  into  one  of  the  finest 
poetical  passages  in  the  play,  in  which  the  Moor 
crowds  together  some  of  the  prevailing  supersti- 
tions of  his  nation,  for  the  purpose  of  disturbing  the 
imagination  of  Desdemona,  and  thus,  as  he  sup- 
poses, arriving  at  the  truth  through  the  infiuence 
of  terror.  This  was  a  fatal  mistake;  for  she  loses 
her  balance,  and  evades  the  ((ueslion. 

301 


[Piazza  of  the  Mostiue  at  Famagusta.] 


ACT    IV. 


SCENE  I.— Before  the  Castle. 


Enter  Othello  ««fZ  Iago. 

lago.  Will  you  tliink  so  ? 

O^//.  Think  so,  Iago  ? 

7(7^0.  What, 

To  kiss  in  private  ? 

0</<,  An  unauthoriz'd  kiss? 

Ingo.  Or  to  be  naked  with  her  friend  in  bed, 
An  hour,  or  more,  not  meaning  any  harm  ? 

Otii.  Naked  in  bed,  Iago,  and  not  mean  harm  ? 
It  is  hypocrisy  against  the  devil: 
They  that  mean  virtuously,  and  yet  do  so. 
The  devil  their  virtue  tempts,  and  they  tempt 
heaven. 

Iago.  If  they  do  nothing,  'tis  a  venial  slip  : 
But  if  I  give  my  wife  a  handerchief, — 

0th.  What  then? 

Iago.  Why  then   'tis  hers,  my  lord  ;  and,  be- 
ing hers, 
She  may,  I  think,  bestow  't  on  any  man. 

0th.  She  is  protectress  of  her  honour  too  ; 
May  she  give  that  ? 
302 


Iago.  Her  honour  is  an  essence  that's  not  seen ; 
They  have  it  very  oft  that  have  it  not : 
But,  for  the  handkerchief, — 

0th.  By  heaven,  I   would  most  gladly  have 
forgot  it : — 
Thou  said'st, — O,  it  comes  o'er  my  memory. 
As  doth  the  raven  o'er  the  infectious"  house, 
Boding  to  all, — he  had  my  handkerchief. 

Iago.  Ay,  what  of  that? 

0th.  That  's  not  so  good,  noAV. 

Iago.  What,  if  I  had  said  I  had  seen  him  do 


you  wrong 


Or  heard  him  say,  (as  knaves  be  such  abroad, 
AVho,  having  by  their  own  importunate  suit, 
Or  voluntai-y  dotage  of  some  mistress, 
Convinced  or  supplied  them,  cannot  choose 
But  they  must  blab,) — 

0th,  Hath  he  said  any  thing? 

Iago.  He  hath,  my  lord ;    but  be   you  well 
assur'd, 
No  more  than  he'll  unswear. 

0th.  What  hath  he  said? 

'  Infections.     Tlie  quarto,  infected. 


Act  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  I. 


lago.  Why,  that  he  did, — I  know  not  what  he 
did. 

0th.  What?  what? 

lago.  Lie — 

0th.  With  her? 

lago.         With  her ; — on  her ; — what  you  will. 

0th.  Lie  with  her!  lie  on  her! — We  say,  lie 
on  her,  when  they  belie  her:  Lie  with  her! 
that's  fulsome. — Handkerchief, — confessions, — 
handkerchief. — To  confess,  and  be  hanged  for 
his  labour. — First,  to  be  hanged,  and  then  to 
confess : — I  tremble  at  it.  Nature  would  not 
invest  herself  in  such  shadowing  passion,  without 
some  instruction.*  It  is  not  words  that  shake 
me  thus  : — Pish ! — Noses,  ears,  and  lips : — Is't 
possible? — Confess! — Handkerchief! — O  devil ! 
[_Falls,  in  a  trance.^ 

lago.  Work  on, 
My  medicine,  work !    Thus  credulous  fools  are 

caught ; 
And  many  worthy  and  chaste  dames,  even  thus, 
All  guiltless  meet  reproach. — What,   ho !    my 
lord! 

Enter  Cassio. 

My  lord,  I  say!  Othello! — How  now,  Cassio? 

Cas,  AVhat  is  the  matter? 

lago.  My  lord  is  fallen  into  an  epilepsy  ; 
This  is  his  second  fit ;  he  had  one  yesterday. 

Cas.  Rub  him  about  the  temples. 

lago.  [No,  forbear  :<=] 

The  lethargy  must  have  his  quiet  course  : 
If  not,  he  foams  at  mouth ;  and,  by  and  by, 
Breaks  out  to  savage  madness.     Look,  he  stirs : 
Do  you  withdraw  yourself  a  little  while. 
He  will  recover  straight :  when  he  is  gone, 
I  would  on  great  occasion  speak  with  you. — 

\_Exit  Cassio. 
How  is  it,  general  ?  have  you  not  hurt  your  head  ? 

0th.  Dost  thou  mock  me  ? 


•  Instruction.  Waiburton  would  read  induction.  Jolinsdn 
thus  explains  instruction  : — "  There  Iwis  always  prevailed  iii 
the  world  an  opinion,  that  when  any  great  calamity  happens 
at  a  distance,  notice  is  given  of  it  to  the  sulferer  by  some  de- 
jection or  perturbation  of  mind,  of  which  he  discovers  no 
external  cause.  This  is  ascribed  to  that  general  commnnica- 
tion  of  one  part  of  the  universe  with  another  which  is  called 
sympathy  and  antipathy;  or  to  the  secret  monition,  instruc- 
tion, and  influence  of  a  superior  Being,  which  superintends 
the  order  of  nature  and  of  life.  Othello  says,  '  Nature  could 
not  invest  herself  in  such  shadowing  passion  without  instruc- 
tion.' 'It  is  not  words  tliat  shake  me  thus.'  This  passion, 
wliich  spreads  its  clouds  over  me,  is  the  effect  of  some  agency 
more  tluin  the  operation  of  words  ;  it  is  one  of  those  notices 
which  men  have  of  unseen  calamities." 

^  Tlie  stage  diiection  of  the  folio  is,  falls  in  a  trance.  We 
have  altered  the  punctuation  to  express,  what  no  doubt  was 
meant,  that  Othello  actually  falls.  Tlie  direction  of  the 
first  quarto  is,  he  falls  down.  lago's  statement  to  Cassio, 
my  lord  has  fallen  into  an  epilepsy,  is  not  meant  for  a  false- 
hood. 

•=  Tlie  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  tlie  folio. 


Jago.  I  mock  you?  no,  by  heaven  : 

'Would  you  would  bear  your  fortune'  like  a  man. 

0th.  A  horned  man's  a  monster,  and  a  beast. 

lago.  There's  many  a  beast  then  in  a  popu- 
lous city. 
And  many  a  civil  monster. 

0/h.  Did  he  confess  it? 

Jago.  Good  sir,  be  a  man ; 

Think,  every  bearded  fellow  that's  but  yok'd 
May  draw  with  you  :  there's  millions  now  alive 
That  nightly  lie  in  those  unproper  beds, 
Which  they  dare  swear  pecidiar ;  your  case  is 

better. 
O,  'tis  the  spite  of  hell,  the  fiend's  arch-mock, 
To  lip  a  wanton  in  a  secure  couch, 
And  to  suppose  her  chaste!     No,  let  me  know; 
And,  knowing   what  I  am,  I  know  what  she 
shall  be. 

0th.  O,  thou  art  wise;  'tis  certain. 

Jago.  Stand  you  awhile  apart ; 

Confine  yourself  but  in  a  patient  list. '' 
Whilst  you  were  here,  o'erwhelmed<=  with  your 

grief, 
(A  passion  most  unsuiting'^such  a  man,) 
Cassio  came  hither :  I  shifted  him  away, 
And  laid  good  'scuse  upon  your  ecstasy; 
Bade  him  anon  return,  and  here  speak  with  me ; 
The  which  he  promis'd.     Do  but  encave  your- 
self, 
And  mark  the   fleers,  the   gibes,    and  notable 

scorns. 
That  dwell  in  every  region  of  his  face ; 
For  I  will  make  him  tell  the  tale  anew, — • 
Where,  how,  how  oft,  how  long  ago,  and  when 
He  hath,  and  is  again  to  cope  your  wife  ; 
I  say,  but  mark  his  gesture.     Marry,  patience ; 
Or  I  shall  say,  you  are  all  in  all  in  spleen, 
And  nothing  of  a  man. 

0th.  Dost  thou  hear,  lago  ? 

I  will  be  found  most  cunning  in  my  patience ; 
But  (dost  thou  hear  ?)  most  bloody. 

Jago.  That's  not  amiss ; 

But  yet  keep  time  in  all.     Will  you  withdraw? 

[Othello  withdraws. 
Now  will  I  question  Cassio  of  Bianca, 
A  housewife,  that  by  selling  her  desires 
Buys  herself  bread  and  clothes  :  it  is  a  creature 
That  dotes  on    Cassio, — as   'tis  the  strumpet's 
plague, 

'  Fortune.     The  i\\v,\x\.o,  fortunes. 

•>  List.  Bound,  barrier,— as  in  Henry  V.,  Act  v..  So.  ii. : — 
"  Dear  Kate,  yon  and  I  cannot  be  contin'd  witliiu  the  weak 
list  of  a  country's  fasliion." 

«  O'erwhelmed.  The  quarto,  ere  wAiVe  mad.  Tliis  is  one 
evidence,  amongst  many,  that  hotli  the  texts  were  printed 
from  a  manuscript. 

^  Unsuiting.     So  the  ciuurto.     The  folio,  resulting. 

303 


Apt  TV] 


OTHELTX). 


To  beguile  many,  and  be  begnil'd  b}'  one  ; — 
He,  when  lie  lieai's  of  her,  cannot  refrain 
From  the  excess  of  laughter : — Here  he  conies : — 

Re-enter  Cassio. 

As  he  shall  smile,  Othello  shall  go  mad  ; 
And  his  unbookish  jealousy  must  construe"^ 
Poor    Cassio's   smiles,  gestures,    and   light  be- 
haviour, 
Quite  in  the  wrong. — How  do  you  now,   lieu 
tenant? 
Cas.  The  worser,  that  you  give  me  the  ad- 
dition, 
"Whose  want  even  kills  me. 

lago.   Ply  Desdemona  well,  and  you  are  sure 
on't. 
Now,  if  this  suit  lay  in  Bianca's  dower,*" 

[^Spealilug  lotver. 
How  quickly  should  you  speed? 

Cas.  Alas,  poor  caitiff! 

0th.  Look,  how  he  laughs  already' !       \^Aside. 
lago.  I  never  knew  woman  love  man  so. 
Cas.  Alas,  poor  rogue!  I   think  indeed  she 

loves  me. 
Olh.  Now  he  denies  it  faintly,  and  laughs  it 
out.  \_Aside. 

lago.  Do  you  hear,  Cassio  ? 
0th.  Now  he  importunes  him 

To  tell  it  o'er :  Go  to ;  well  said,  well  said. 

\_Aside. 
lago.  She  gives  it  out,  that  j'ou  shall  marry 
her : 
Do  you  intend  it? 

Cas.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

0th.  Do  you  triumph,  Roman?   do  you  tri- 
umph ?  \^Aside. 
Cas.  I  marry! — what?  a  customer!    Prithee 
bear  some  charity  to  my  wit;   do  not  think  it  so 
unwholesome.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

0th.  So,  so,  so,  so :  They  laugh  that  win. 

\^Aside. 
lago.  Wlij%  the  cry  goes,  that  j'ou  marry  her. 
Cas.  Prithee,  say  true. 
lago.  I  am  a  very  villain  else. 
0th.  Have  you  scored  me?  Well.  [Aside. 
Cas.  This  is  the  monkey's  own  giving  out: 
she  is  persuaded  I  will  marry  her,  out  of  her 
own  love  and  flattery,  not  out  of  my  promise. 

■  Construe.  There  is  an  obvious  association  between  tlie 
epithet  nnhooltish,  and  construe.  The  fulio,  liowever,  reads 
conserve.  The  (piarto  lias  conster;  which  satisfies  us  tliat  ron- 
strve  is  the  right  reading,  the  word  conster  being  used  in  tliis 
sense  in  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt's  poems  : — 

"  Conster  what  this  is,  and  tel  not. 
For  I  am  fast  sworne  I  may  not." 
The  little  poem  of  Wyatt's  is  a  riddle  to  be  constrr'd. 
*'  Dower,  in  the  sense  of  gift.     The  quarto  has  power. 

304 


Olh.  lago  beckons  me;  now  he  begins  the 
story.  [Aside. 

Cas.  She  was  here  even  now ;  she  haunts  me 
in  every  place.  I  was,  the  other  day,  talking  on 
the  sea-bank  with  certain  Venetians;  and  thither 
comes  the  bauble,  and  falls  me  thus*  about  my 
neck ; — 

0th.  Crying,  O  dear  Cassio!  as  it  were  :  his 
gesture  imports  it.  [Aside. 

Cas.  So  hangs,  and  lolls,  and  weeps  upon  me; 
so  shakes'*  and  pulls  me:  ha,  ha,  ha!— 

Ofh.  Now  he  tells  how  she  plucked  him  to 
my  chamber:  O,  I  see  that  nose  of  yours,  but 
not  that  dog  I  shall  throw  it  to.  [Aside. 

Cas.  Well,  I  must  leave  her  company. 

lago.  Before  me !  look,  where  she  comes. 

Enter  Bi.^nca, 

Cas.  'Tis  such  another  fitchew!  marrj',  a  per- 
fumed one. — What  do  you  mean  by  this  haunt- 
ing of  me  ? 

Bia?K  Let  the  devil  and  his  dam  haunt  you! 
What  did  you  mean  by  that  same  handkerchief 
you  gave  me  even  now?  I  was  a  fine  fool  to  take 
it.  I  must  take  out  the  work  !  "^ — A  likely  piece 
of  work  that  you  should  find  it  in  your  chamber, 
and  know  not  who  left  it  there!  This  is  some 
minx's  token,  and  I  must  take  out  the  work! 
There, — give  it  your  hobby  horse  :  wheresoever 
you  had  it  I'll  take  out  no  work  on't. 

Cas.  How  now,  my  sweet  Bianca?  how  now, 
how  now  ? 

0th.  By  heaven,  that  should  be  my  handker- 
chief !  [Aside. 

Bian.  If  you"ll  come  to  supper  to-night  you 
may ;  if  you  will  not,  come  when  you  are  next 
prepared  for.  [Exit. 

lago.  After  her,  after  her. 

Cas.  I  must;  she'll  rail  in  the  streets  else. 

lago.  Will  you  sup  there? 

Cas.  Yes,  I  intend  so. 

lago.  Well,  I  may  chance  to  see  you;  for  I 
would  very  fain  speak  with  you. 

Cas.  Prithee,  come  :  Will  you  ? 

lago.  Go  to ;  say  no  more.  [Exit  Cassio. 

0th.  How  shall  I  murther  him,  Ligo  ? 

lago.  Did  you  perceive  how  he  laughed  at 
his  vice  ? 

0th.  O,  lago ! 

lago.  And  did  you  see  the  handkerchief  ? 

Ofh.  Was  that  mine  ? 

lago.  Yours,  by  this  hand ;  and  to  see  how  he 

»  Tlie  q\uu-to,  hy  this  hand,  she  falls  thus. 
''  Shakes.     The  quarto,  hales. 
°  The  quarto — the  whole  work. 


Act  IV.] 


OTITELLO. 


[SrENE   I. 


prizes  tlie  foolish  woman,  your  wife  !   slie  gave  it 
him,  and  he  hath  given  it  his  whore. 

0th.  I  would  have  him  nine  years  a  killing  : — 
A  fine  woman  !  a  fair  woman  !  a  sweet  woman  ! 

lago.  Nay,  you  must  forget  tliat. 

0th.  Ay,  let  her  rot,  and  perish,  and  be 
damned  to-night ;  for  she  shall  not  live  :  No,  my 
heart  is  turned  to  stone  ;  I  strike  it,  and  it  hurts 
my  hand.  O,  the  world  hath  not  a  sweeter 
creatiu'e  :  she  might  lie  by  an  emperor's  side, 
and  commarid  him  tasks. 

lacjo.  Nay,  that's  not  your  way. 

Otli.  Hang  her  !  I  do  but  say  what  she  is  : — 
So  delicate  with  her  needle ! — An  admirable 
musician  !  O,  she  will  sing  the  savageness  out  of 
a  bear  ! — Of  so  high  and  plenteous  wit  and  in- 
vention ! 

lago.  She's  the  worse  for  all  this. 

0th.  O,  a  thousand,  a  thousand  times  : — And 
then,  of  so  gentle  a  condition  ! 

lago.  Ay,  too  gentle. 

Otli.  Nay,  that's  certain  :  But  yet  the  pity  of 
it,  lago  ! — O,  lago,  the  pity  of  it,  lago  ! 

lago.  If  3'ou  are  so  fond  over  her  iniquity,  give 
her  patent  to  offend ;  for,  if  it  touch  not  you  it 
comes  near  nobody. 

Olh.  I  will  chop  her  into  messes : — Cuckold 
me  ! 

lago.  O,  'tis  fold  in  her. 

Ofh.  With  mine  officer  ! 

lago.  That's  fouler. 

0th.  Get  me  some  poison,  lago;  this  night: 
— I'll  not  expostulate  with  her,  lest  her  body 
and  beauty  unprovide  my  mind  again  : — this 
night,  lago. 

lago.  Do  it  not  with  poison ;  strangle  her  in 
her  bed,  even  the  bed  she  hath  contaminated. 

0th.  Good,  good :  the  justice  of  it  pleases  ; 
very  good. 

lago.  And,  for  Cassio, — let  me  be  his  under- 
taker : 
You  shall  hear  more  by  midnight. 

[y/  trumpet  within. 

0th.  Excellent  good. — What  trumpet  is  that 
same  ? 

lago.  I  warrant,  something  from  Venice. 
'Tis  Lodovico,  this,  comes  from  the  duke  j'^ 
See,  yoiir  wife  's  with  him. 

Enter  Lodovico,  Desdemona,  and  Attendants. 

Lod.  'Save  you,  worthy  general ! 

0th.  With  all  my  heart,  sir. 


*  The  quarto  reads  thus : — 

"  Something  from  Venice,  sure. 
Come  from  the  duke." 


'Tis  Lodovico, 


l.od.  The  duke  and  senators  of  Venice  greet 
you.  \_Gives  him  a  packet. 

Ofh.  I  kiss  the  instrument  of  their  pleasures. 
lOpens  the  packet  and  reads. 

Des.  And    what 's   the    news,     good   cousin 
Lodovico  ? 

lago.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  signior; 
Welcome  to  Cyprus. 

Lod.  I  thank  you:  how  does  lieutenant  Cassio? 

lago.  Lives,  sir. 

Des.  Cousin,  there's  fallen  between  him  and 
my  lord 
An  imkind  breach  :  but  you  shall  make  all  well. 

0th.  Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Des.  My  lord? 

0th.         This  fail  you  not  to  do,  as  you  will — 

\_Reads. 

Lod.  He  did  not  call :  he's  busy  in  the  paper. 
Is  there  division  'twixt  my  lord^  and  Cassio? 

Des.  A  most  unhappy  one  ;  I  would  do  much 
To  atone  them,  for  the  love  I  bear  to  Cassio. 

0th.  Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

0th.  Are  you  wise  ? 

Des.  What,  is  he  angry  ? 

Ljod.  'May  be,  the  letter  mov'd  him  ; 

For,  as  I  think,  they  do  command  him  home. 
Deputing  Cassio  in  his  government. 

Des.  Trust  me,  I  am  glad  on  't. 

0th.  Indeed? 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Otli.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  mad. 

Des.  Why,  sweet  Othello  ? 

0th.  Devil !  \_Strildng  her. 

Des.  I  have  not  deserv'd  this. 

Lod.  My  lord,  this  would  not  be  believ'd  in 
Venice, 
Though  I  should  swear  I  saw  't :   'Tis  very  much ; 
Make  her  amends,  she  weeps. 

0th.  O  devil,  devil ! 

If  that  the  earth  coidd  teem  with  woman's  tears. 
Each  drop  she  falls  ^  would  prove  a  crocodile  : — 
Out  of  my  sight  I 

Des.  I  will  not  stay  to  offend  you. 

[  Goiiig. 

Lod.  Truly,  an  obedient  lady  : — 
I  do  beseech  your  lordship,  call  her  back. 

0th.  Mistress — 

Des.  My  lord  ? 

Olh.  What  would  you  with  her,  sir? 

Lod.  Who,  I,  my  lord? 

0th.  Ay;  you  did  wish  that  I  would  make 
her  turn ; 


My  bird.     The  quarto,  thy  bird. 
Falls,  used  as  a  verl)  active. 


305 


Arr  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCFNE    II. 


Sir,  she  can  turn,  and  turn,  and  yet  go  on, 
And  turn  again ;  and  she  can  weep,  sir,  weep ; 
And  she's  obedient,  as  you  say, — obedient, — 
Very  obedient : — Proceed  you  in  your  tears. — 
Concerning  this,  sir, — O  well- painted  passion  ! 
I  am  commanded  home  : — Get  you  away  ; 
I'll  send  for  you  anon. — Sir,  I  obey  the  mandate, 
And  will  return  to  Venice ; — Hence,  avaunt ! 

[^Exit  Desdemona. 
Cassio  shall  have  my  place.  And, — sir,  to-night, 
I  do  entreat  that  we  may  sup  together. 
You  are  welcome,  sir,  to  Cyprus. — Goats  and 
monkeys !  [Exit. 

Lod.   Is  this  the  noble  Moor  whom  our  full 
senate 
Call  all-in-all  sufficient? — Is  this  the  nature* 
Whom  passion  could  not  shake  ?    whose   solid 

virtue 
The  shot  of  accident,  nor  dart  of  chance, 
Could  neither  graze,  nor  pierce  1 

logo.  He  is  much  chang'd. 

Lod.  Are  his  wits   safe?   is  he  not  light  of 

brain  ? 
lago.  He  is  that  he  is  ;  I  may  not  breathe  my 
censure. 
What  he  might  be, — if,   what  he  might,  he  is 

not, — 
I  wovdd  to  heaven,  he  were. 
Lod.  What,  strike  his  wife  ! 

lago.  'Faith,  that  was  not  so  well ;  Yet  'would 
I  knew 
That  stroke  would  prove  the  worst. 

Lod.  Is  it  his  use  ? 

Or  did  the  letters  work  upon  his  blood, 
And  new-create  his  fault  ? 

lago.  Alas,  alas ! 

It  is  not  honesty  in  me,  to  speak 
What  I  have  seen  and  known.  You  shall  observe 

him  ; 
And  his  own  courses  will  denote  him  so, 
That  I  may  save  my  speech  :  Do  but  go  after, 
And  mark  how  he  continues. 

Lod.  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  deceiv'd  in  him. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  11.—^  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Othello  a?if/ Emilia. 

0th.  You  have  seen  nothing  then  ? 

Emil.  Nor  ever  heard ;  nor  ever  did  suspect. 

0th.  Yes,  you  have  seen  Cassio  and  she  to- 
gether. 

Emil.  But  then  I  saw  no  harm  ;  and  then  I 
heard 

"  The  quarto— t/(!s  the  noble  nature- 
306 


Each  syllable   that  breath   made    up   between 
them. 

0th.  What,  did  they  never  whisper? 

Emil.  Never,  my  lord. 

0th.  Nor  send  you  out  o'  the  way? 

Emil.  Never. 

0th.  To  fetch  her  fan,  her  gloves,  her  mask, 
nor  nothing  ? 

Emil.  Never,  my  lord. 

0th.  That's  strange. 

Emil.  I  durst,  my  lord,  to  wager  she  is  honest, 
Lay  down  my  soul  at  stake :  if  you  think  other. 
Remove  your  thought;  it  doth  abuse  your  bosom. 
If  any  wretch  have  put  this  in  your  head. 
Let  heaven  requite  it  with  the  serpent's  curse! 
For,  if  she  be  not  honest,  chaste,  and  true. 
There's  no  man  happy  ;  the  purest  of  their  wives* 
Is  foul  as  slander. 

0th.  Bid  her  come  hither  : — go. — 

[Exit  Emilia. 
She  says  enough  ; — yet  she  's  a  simple  bawd 
That  cannot  say  as  much.     This   is  a  subtle 

whore, 
A  closet-lock-and-key  of  villainous  secrets  : 
And  yet  she'll  kneel,  and  pray ;  I  have  seen  her 
do't. 

Re-enter  Emilia,  with  Desdemona. 

Des.  My  lord,  what  is  your  will  ? 
0th.  Pray  you,  chuck,  come  hither. 

Des.  What  is  your  pleasure  ? 
0th.  Let  me  see  your  eyes  ; 

Look  in  my  face. 

Des.  What  horrible  fancy  's  this  ? 

0th.  Some  of  your  function,  mistress  ; 

[7'o  Emilia. 
Leave  procreants  alone,  and  shut  the  door; 
Cough,  or  cry  hem,  if  any  body  come  : 
Your  mystery,  your  mystery  ; — nay,  despatch. 

[Exit  Emilia. 
Des.  Upon  my  knee  what  doth  your  speech 
import  ? 
I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words, 
[But  not  the  words.''] 

0th.  Why,  what  art  thou  ? 

Des.  Your  wife,  my  lord ;  your  true  and  loyal 

wife. 
0th.  Come,  swear  it,  damn  thyself; 
Lest,  being  like  one  of  heaven,  the  devils  them- 
selves 
Should  fear  to  seize  thee  :  therefore  be  double- 
damn 'd. 
Swear — thou  art  honest. 


^  Tlie  quarto — of  her  sex. 

t"  The  passage  in  brackets  is  not  in  the  folio. 


Act  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


Des.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

0th.  Heaven  truly  knows  that  thou  art  false 
as  hell. 

Des.  To  whom,  my  lord?  with  whom?  How 
am  I  false? 

0th.  Ah  Desdemon  ! — away  !  away  !  away  ! 

Des.  Alas,   the  heavy  day! — Why    do   you 
weep  ? 
Am  I  the  motive"  of  these  tears,  my  lord  ? 
If,  haply,  you  my  father  do  suspect 
An  instrument  of  this  your  calling  back, 
Lay  not  your  blame  on  me ;   if  you  have  lost 

him, 
I  have  lost  him  too. 

0th.  Had  it  pleas'd  heaven 

To  try  me  with  affliction  ;  had  he  rain'd 
All  kinds  of  sores,  and  shames,  on  my  bare  head; 
Steep'd  me  in  poverty  to  the  very  lips ; 
Given  to  captivity  me  and  my  utmost  hopes  ; 
I  should  have  found  in  some  place''  of  my  soul 
A  drop  of  patience  :  but,  alas  !  to  make  me 
The  fixed  figure  for  the  time  of  scorn 
To  point  his  slow  and  moving  finger  at,' — 

*  Afiitive.  Tlie  quarto,  occasion. 
*>  Place.    The  quarto,  part. 

'  In  this  passage  the  quarto  reads,  a  fixed  figure,  instead 
of  the  Jived  Jigure,  and  unmoving,  instead  of  and  moving. 
Eowe  altered  time  to  hand.  Tlie  commentators  say  that 
Othello  takes  his  idea  from  a  clock  ;  and  they  support  this 
opinion,  as  well  as  the  epithet  unmoving,  by  these  lines  ft-om 
tha  104th  Sonnet:— 

"  Ah  I  yet  dolh  beauty  like  a  dial-hand 
Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceiv'd." 
They  say,  too,  that  the  finger  of  the  dial  was  a  technical 
phrase,  as  is  seen  is  a  passage  of  one  of  Davenant's  plays, 
1629  :— 

"  Even  as  the  slow  finger  of  the  dial 
Doth  in  its  motions  circular  remove 
To  distant  figures." 
But  this  quotation,  we  think,  tells  strongly  against  their 
opinion:  it  shows  us  what  Sliakspere  meant  by  the  expres- 
sion, in  his  Sonnet,  "  Steal  from  hisjigure."  Tlie  figure  was 
simply  the  .\rabic  numeral  from  which  the  dial-hand  went 
on  to  distant  Jigures.  Steevens  thus  paraphrases  the  text : — 
"  To  make  me  a  fixed  figure  on  the  dial  of  the  world,  for  the 
hour  of  scorn  to  point  and  make  a  full  stop  at;"'  and  tlieu 
lie  adds,  "  In  the  clocks  of  the  last  age  there  was,  I  think,  in 
the  middle  of  the  dial-plate  a  figure  of  time,  which,  I  be- 
lieve, was  in  our  poet's  thoughts  when  he  wrote  the  passage 
in  the  text."  Tliere  certainly  is  a  most  extraordinary  con- 
fusion here  ;  for,  if  the  figure  be  in  the  middle,  the  dial-liand 
points  from  it,  and  not  at  it,  .and  there  is  nothing  more  re- 
markable in  one  numeral  of  a  clock  than  in  another.  But 
■why  are  we  to  have  the  notion  of  a  clock  at  all  ?  There  is 
nothing  whatever  in  the  passage  to  warrant  us  in  believing 
that  the  poet  meant  such  a  metaphor.  By  the  fixed  Jigure  we 
understand,  literally,  a  living  man  exposed  to  public  shame; 
or,  an  efligy  exhibited  to  a  multitude,  as  Butler  has  it: — 

"  To  punish  in  effigie  criminals." 
By  the  time  we  receive  the  same  idi'a  as  in  Hamlet : — 

"  For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  oitime  ?" 
Time  is  by  Hamlet  distinctly  used  to  express  the  (imes,  the 
age;  and  it  is  used  in  the  same  way  by  Ben  Jouson. 
"  O  how  1  hate  the  mnnstrousness  o( time!  " 
lu  the  passage  before  us,  then,  the  time  ufscmn  is  the  age  of 
scorn.     Shakspere   has   also  personified  scorn   in   the   78tfi 
Sonnet : — 

"  \Vlien  thou  shalt  be  dispos'd  to  set  me  light. 
And  place  my  merit  in  the  eye  of  scorn." 
Thq  slow  Jingcr  is  the  pausing  finger,  pointing  at  the  fixed 


Yet  could  I  bear  that  too ;  well,  very  well : 
But  there,  where  I  have  garnerd  up  my  heart; 
Wliere  either  I  must  live,  or  bear  no  life  ; 
Tlie  fountain  from  the  which  my  current  runs, 
Or  else  dries  up ;  to  be  discarded  thence  ! 
Or  keep  it  as  a  cistern,  for  foul  toads 
To  knot  and  gender  in  !  turn   thy  complexion 

there. 
Patience,  thou  young  and  rose-lipp"d  cherubin! 
Ay,  there,  look  grim  as  hell ! " 

Des.  I  hope  my  noble  lord  esteems  me  honest. 

0th.  O,    ay ;    as   summer   flies    are    in   the 
shambles. 
That  quicken  even  with  blowing.    O  thou  weed, 
Who  art  so  lovely  fair,  and  smell'st  so  sweet, 
That   the   sense    aches   at   thee, — 'would   thou 
had'st  ne'er  been  born  ! 

Des.  Alas,    what  ignorant   sin  have  I  com- 
mitted ? 

0th.  Was  this  fair  paper,  this  most  goodly 
book. 
Made  to  write  whore  upon  ?  What  committed  ?•» 
Committed  ? — O  thou  public  commoner  ! 
I  should  make  very  forges  of  my  cheeks, 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  up  modesty. 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds. — What  committed  ? 
Heaven  stops  the  nose  at  it,  and  the  moon  winks  ; 
The  bawdy  wind,  that  kisses  all  it  meets. 
Is  hush'd  within  the  hollow  mine  of  earth, 
And  will  not  hear  it :  What  committed  ? 

Des.  By  heaven,  you  do  me  wrong. 

0th.  Are  not  you  a  strumpet  ? 

Des.  No,  as  I  am  a  Cliristian  ; 
If  to  preserve  this  vessel  for  my  lord, 
From  any  other  fovd  imlawful  touch, 
Be  not  to  be  a  strumpet,  I  am  none. 

0th.  What,  not  a  whore  ? 

Des.  No,  as  I  shall  be  saved. 

0th.   Is  't  possible  ? 

Des.  O,  heaven  forgive  us ! 

0th.  I  cry  you  mercj',  then  ; 

I  took  3'ou  for  that  cunning  whore  of  Venice, 
That  married  with  Othello. — You,  mistress, 

figure;  but,  while  it  points,  it  moves  in  mocfim/.  Shakspere 
was  probably  thinking  o(  theDigito  Monstrari  of  the  ancients, 
and  it  may  be,  also,  of  the  finger  gesticulations  of  the 
Itjilians.  In  the  quarto,  after  _/i;ioer  at,  we  fiud,  0]  01 
which  interjections  do  not  occur  in  the  folio. 

^  In  all  the  old  copies — I  here  look  grim  as  liell.     /iy  «s 
often  printed  /. 

b  JVhat  committed  ?    Desdemona  has  asked — 

"  Alas !  what  ignorant  sin  liave  I  committed  ?  " 
Othello,  indignant  at  the  question ,  with  a  mocking  fury  re- 
peats it  four  times— U'/mt  committed  f  The  cummentjitors 
liave  changed  this  into  an  iuterjectional  phrase,  giving  it  the 
meaning  of,  what!  thou  art  committed!  telling  us  tliat  com- 
mitted had  a  peculiar  signification.  The  plain  and  iiatural 
interpretation  seems  the  true  one.  The  ipiaito  omits  the 
third,  fourth,  fifth,  and  sixth  lines  of  OlhcUo's  speecli, 
adding,  after  tlie  last  question,  "  impudent  strumpet!  " 

307 


Act  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNK    II. 


That  liave  tlie  office  opposite  to  Saint  Peter, 
And  keep  tlie  gate  of  liell ;  You !  you!  ay,  you  ! 

Re-enter  Emilia. 

We  have  clone  our  course;    there's  money  for 

your  pains ; 
I  pray  you  turn  the  key,  and  keep  our  counsel. 

\_Exit. 
Emil.  Alas,  what  does  this  gentleman  con- 
ceive ? — 
How  do  you,   madam  ?  how  do  you,   my  good 
lady  ? 
Des.   'Faith,  half  asleep. 
EjiuL  Good  madam,  what 's  the  matter  with 

my  lord? 
Des.  With  who  ? 

Emil.  Why,  with  my  lord,  madam. 

Des.  Who  is  thy  lord  ? 

Emil.  He  that  is  j'ours,  sweet  lady.* 

Des.   I  have  none  :  Do  not  talk  to  me,  Emilia; 
I  cannot  weep  ;  nor  answer  have  I  none, 
But  what  should  go  by  water.     Prithee,  to-night 
Lay  on   my  bed  my  wedding  sheets, — remem- 
ber ; — 
And  call  thy  husband  hither. 

Emil.  Here  's  a  change,  indeed ! 

lEjcil. 
Des.  'Tis  meet  I  should  be  us'd  so,  very  meet. 
How  have  I  been  behav'd,  that  he  might  stick 
The  small'st  opinion  on  my  least  misuse?'' 

Re-enter  Emilia,  with  Iago. 

lago.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ?     How 
is  't  with  you  ? 

Des.  I   cannot   tell.      Those    that   do   teach 
young  babes. 
Do  it  with  gentle  means  and  easy  tasks  : 
He  might  have  chid  me  so ;  for,  in  good  faith, 
I  am  a  child  to  chiding. 

Iago.  What  is  the  matter,  lady  ? 

Emil.  Alas,  Iago,  my  lord  hath  so  bewhor'd 
her. 
Thrown  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  her. 
That  true  hearts  cannot  bear  it. 

Des.  Am  I  that  name,  Iago? 

Iago.  What  name,  fair  lady  ? 

Des.  Such  as  she  said  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

Emil.  He  call'd  her  whore  ;  a  beggar,  in  liis 
drink. 
Could  not  have  laid  such  terms  upon  his  callet. 

Iago.  Why  did  he  so? 

Des.  I  do  not  know  ;  I  am  sure  I  am  none  such. 

*  Desdemona's  questimi  and  this  answer  are  omitted  in  the 

(jiiiirti). 

b  Un  my  lead  miiuse.    The  cjiiarto  reads,  on  my  great' st 
abuse-. 

308 


Iago.  Do  not  weep,  do  not  weep  ;    Alas  the 

day ! 
Emil.   Has  she  forsook  so  many  noble  matches. 
Her  father,  and  her  country,  and  her  friends. 
To  be   called  whore?  would  it  not  make  one 
weep  ? 
Des.  It  is  my  wretched  fortune. 
Iago.  Beshrew  him  for  "t! 

How  comes  this  trick  upon  him  ? 

Des.  Nay,  heaven  doth  know. 

Emil.  I  will  be  hang'd,  if  some  eternal  villain, 
Some  busy  and  insinuating  rogue. 
Some  cogging  cozening  slave,  to  get  some  office. 
Have  not  devis"d  this  slander ;  I  will  be  hang'd 
else. 
Iago.  Fie,   there  is  no   such  man;    it  is  im- 
possible. 
Des.  If  any  such  there  be,  hea\'en  pardon  him  ! 
Emil.  A  halter  pardon  him  !  and  hell  gnaw 
his  bones ! 
Why  should  he  call  her  whore  ?  who  keeps  her 

company  ? 
What  place  ?  what  time  ?  what  form  ?  what  like- 
lihood? 
The    Moor  's    abus'd   by  some    most   villanous 

knave. 
Some  base  notorious  knave,  some  scurvy    fel- 
low : — - 
O,  heaven,  that  such  companions  thou  'dst  un- 
fold ; 
And  put  in  every  honest  hand  a  whip. 
To  lash  the  rascals*  naked  thro\igh  the  world. 
Even  from  the  east  to  the  west ! 

Iago.  Speak  wltliin  door. 

Emil.  O,  fie  upon  them  !  ^   some  such  squire 
he  was 
That  turn'd  your  wit  the  seamy  side  without. 
And  made  you  to  suspect  me  with  the  Moor. 
Iago.  You  are  a  fool ;  go  to. 
Des.  Alas,  Iago, 

What  shall  I  do  to  win  my  lord  again  ? 
Good  friend,  go  to  him;    for,  by  this  light  of 

heaven, 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him.'=     Here  I  kneel ; 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love. 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought,''  or  actual  deed  ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did. 


"  Rascals.     Tiie  (luavto,  rascal. 

b  Them.     The  (luarto,  Ann. 

•^  The  following  lines  to  the  end  of  the  speech  are  not 
found  in  the  ([uarto. 

*  Discourse,  of  thuvght.  In  Hamlet  we  have  discourse  of 
reason — the  disciirsion  of  reason,  .'^ir  John  Davies  has  the 
discoursing  thovght.  Pope  cliauged  the  text  before  \is  to 
discourse,  or  thougltt. 


A.;r  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SoENt    II 


And  ever  will, — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement, — love  him  dearly. 
Comfort  forswear   me  !      Unkindness   may   do 

much ; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life, 
But  never  taint  my  love.     I  cannot  say,  whore  ; 
It  does  abhor  me,  now  I  speak  the  word  ; 
To  do  the  act  that  might  the  addition  earn, 
Not  the  world's  mass  of  vanity  could  make  me. 

lago.  I  pray  you,  be   content;    'tis  but  his 
humour ; 
The  business  of  the  state  does  him  offence, 
[And  he  does  chide  with  you.*] 

Des.  If  'twere  no  other ! 

logo.  It  is  but  so,  I  warrant. 

[  Trumpets. 
Hark,  how  these  instruments  summon  to  supper ! 
The  messengers  of  Venice  stay  the  meat."* 
Go  in,  and  weep  not :  all  things  shall  be  well. 
{^Exeunt  Desdemona  and  Emilia. 

Enter  Roderigo. 

How  now,  Roderigo  ? 

Rod.  I  do  not  find  that  thou  deal'st  justly 
with  me. 

Jago.  What  in  the  contrary  ? 

Rod.  Every  day  thou  dafts*^  me  with  some  de- 
vice, lago ;  and  rather,  as  it  seems  to  me  now, 
keep"  St  from  me  all  conveniency,  than  suppliest 
me  with  the  least  advantage  of  hope.  I  will,  in- 
deed, no  longer  endiure  it :  Nor  am  I  yet  per- 
suaded to  pvit  up  in  peace  what  already  I  have 
fooHshly  suffered. 

lago.   Will  you  hear  me,  Roderigo  ? 

Rod.  I  have  heard  too  much ;  and  your  words 
and  performances  are  no  kin  together. 

lago.  You  charge  me  most  unjustly. 

Rod.  With  nought  but  truth.  I  have  wasted 
myself  out  of  my  means.  The  jewels  you  have 
had  from  me,  to  deliver  to  Desdemona,  would 
half  have  corrupted  a  votarist :  You  have  told 
me  she  hath  received  them,  and  returned  me 
expectations  and  comforts  of  sudden  respect  and 
acquaintance  : ''  but  I  find  none. 

lago.  Well ;  go  to ;  very  well. 

Rod.  Very  well!  go  to!  I  cannot  go  to,  man  ; 
nor  'tis  not  very  well.  Nay,  I  think,''  it  is 
scurvy  ;  and  begin  to  find  myself  fobbed  in  it. 

^  The  liue  in  brackets  is  not  in  the  folio. 

t"  The  quarto  reads — 

"  And  the  great  messengers  of  Venice  stay." 
Steevens  calls  the  reading  of  the  folio  poor;  but  its  precision 
and  familiarity  make  it  more  dramatic  and  characteristic. 

<=  Dafls.  The  Prince  of  Wales,  in  Henry  IV.,  is  described 
as  one  "  that  da/f  the  world  aside."  The  quarto  reads,  diijfls. 
The  words  are  the  same. 

d  Acquaintance.    The  quarto  reads  acquittance. 

'  Nay,  I  think.    The  quarto  reads,  by  this  hand  I  say. 

Thagedies.— Vol.  I.        2  R 


lago.  Very  well. 

Rod.  I  tell  you,  'tis  not  very  well.  I  will 
make  myself  known  to  Desdemona  :  If  she  will 
return  me  my  jewels  I  will  give  over  my  suit, 
and  repent  my  unlawful  solicitation ;  if  not, 
assure  yourself  I  will  seek  satisfaction  of  you. 

lago.  You  have  said  now. 

Rod.  Ay,  and  said  nothing  but  what  I  pro- 
test intendment  of  doing. 

lago.  Why,  now  I  see  there's  mettle  in  thee  ; 
and  even,  from  this  instant,  do  build  on  thee  a 
better  opinion  than  ever  before.  Give  me  thy 
hand,  Roderigo :  Thou  hast  taken  against  me 
a  most  just  exception  ;  but  yet,  I  protest,  I  have 
dealt  most  directly  in  thy  affair. 

Rod.  It  hath  not  appeared. 

lago.  I  grant,  indeed,  it  hath  not  appeared ; 
and  your  suspicion  is  not  without  wit  and  judg- 
ment. But,  Roderigo,  if  thou  hast  that  in  thee 
indeed,  which  I  have  greater  reason  to  believe 
now  than  ever, — I  mean,  purpose,  courage,  and 
valour, — this  night  show  it :  if  thou  the  next 
night  following  enjoy  not  Desdemona,  take  me 
fi'om  this  world  with  treachery,  and  devise  en- 
gines for  my  life. 

Rod.  Well,  what  is  it  ?  is  it  within  reason  and 
compass  ? 

lago.  Sir,  there  is  especial  commission  come 
from  Venice,  to  depute  Cassio  in  Othello's  place. 

Rod.  Is  that  true?  why  then  Othello  and 
Desdemona  return  again  to  Venice. 

lago.  O,  no ;  he  goes  into  Mauritania,  and 
taketh  away  with  him  the  fair  Desdemona,  un- 
less his  abode  be  lingered  here  by  some  acci- 
dent ;  wherein  none  can  be  so  determinate  as 
the  removing  of  Cassio. 

Rod.  How  do  you  mean  removing  him  ? 

lago.  Why,  by  making  him  imcapable  of 
Othello's  place  ;  knocking  out  his  brains. 

Rod.  And  that  you  would  have  me  to  do  ? 

lago.  Ay ;  if  you  dare  do  yourself  a  profit, 
and  a  right.  He  sups  to-night  with  a  harlotrj^ 
and  thither  will  I  go  to  him ; — he  knows  not  yet 
of  his  honourable  fortune  :  if  you  will  watch  his 
going  thence,  (which  I  will  fashion  to  fall  out 
between  twelve  and  one,)  you  may  take  him  at 
your  pleasure;  I  will  be  near  to  second  your 
attempt,  and  he  shall  fall  between  us.  Come, 
stand  not  amazed  at  it,  but  go  along  with  me; 
I  will  show  you  such  a  necessity  in  his  death, 
that  you  shall  think  yourself  bound  to  put  it  on 
him.  It  is  now  high  supper-time,  and  the  night 
grows  to  waste  :  about  it. 

Rod.  I  will  hear  further  reason  for  this. 

lago.  And  you  shall  be  satisfied.        [Exeunt. 

309 


Act  IV.l 


OTHELLO. 


rScENE   III. 


SCENE  III.— Another  Room  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Othello,  Lodovico,  Desdemona, 
Emilia,  and  Attendants. 
Lod.  I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  trouble  yourself 

no  further. 
0th.  O,  pardon    me  ;  'twill  do  me  good  to 

walk. 
Lod.  Madam,  good  night;  I  humbly  thank 

your  ladyship. 
Des.  Your  honour  is  most  welcome. 
0th.  Will  you  walk,  sir  ? 

O,  Desdemona, — 

Des.  My  lord? 

0th.  Get  you  to  bed  on  the  instant ;  I  will 
be  returned  forthwith :  dismiss  your  attendant 
thei-e  ;  look  it  be  done. 
Des.  I  will,  my  Lord. 

[Exeunt  Othello,  Lodovico,  and 
Attendants. 
Emil.  How  goes  it  now?  he  looks  gentler 

than  he  did. 
Des.  He  says  he  will  return  incontinent ; 
And  hath  commanded  me  to  go  to  bed, 
And  bade  me  to  dismiss  you. 

Emil.  Dismiss  me ! 

Des.  It  was   his    bidding ;    therefore,    good 
Emilia, 
Give  me  my  nightly  wearing,  and  adieu ; 
We  must  not  now  displease  him. 

E7)iil.  Ay,  would  you  had  never  seen  him  ! 
Des.  So  would  not  I ;  my  love  doth  so  approve 
him. 
That   even    his   stubbornness,    his   checks,  his 

frowns, — 
Prithee,  unpin  me, — have  grace  and  favour  in 
them.* 

Emil.  I  have  laid  those  sheets  you  bade  me 
on  the  bed. 

Des.  All  's  one :— Good  father !  how  foolish 
are  our  minds ! — 
If  I  do  die  before  thee,  prithee,  shroud  me 
In  one  of  those  same  sheets. 

Emil.  Come,  come,  you  talk. 

Des.  My  mother  had  a  maid  call'd  Barbara;'' 
She  was  in  love ;  and  he  she  lov'd  prov'd  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her :  she  had  a  song  of  '  willow,'^ 
An  old  thing  'twas,  but  it  express'd  her  fortune. 
And  she  died  singing  it :  That  song,  to-night. 
Will  not  go  from  my  mind;"^  I  have  much  to  do, 

»  In  them.  The  quarto  reads,  "  Have  grace  and  favour 
in  them.    The  folio  omils  in  them. 

b  Barbara.  Barbarie  is  tlie  leading  of  the  quarto  and  first 
folio;  it  became  Barbara  in  the  second  folio.  Barbarie  is 
a  pretty  word,  and  we  would  not  willingly  change  it ;  but  it 
would  appear  like  an  affectation  of  singiilarity  to    retain  it. 

■^  All  that  follows,  to  the  end  of  the  song,  is  not  found  in 
the  iiuarto. 

310 


But  to  go  hang  my  head  all  at  one  side. 
And  sing  it,  like  poor  Barbara.     Prithee,  de- 
spatch. 

Emil.  Shall  I  go  fetch  your  night-gown  ? 

Des.  No,  unpin  me  here. — 

This  Lodovico  is  a  proper  man. 

Emil.  A  very  handsome  man. 

Des.  He  speaks  weU. 

Emil.  I  know  a  lady  in  Venice  would  have 
walked  barefoot  to  Palestine,  for  a  touch  of  his 
nether  lip. 

I. 

Des.  Tlie  poor  soul  sat  singing*  by  a  sycamore  tree. 

Sing  all  a  green  willow  ; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee, 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow : 
The  fresh  streams  ran  by  her,  and  murmur'd  her 
moans ; 

Sing  willow,  &c. 
Her  salt  tears  fell  from  her,  and  soften'd  the  stones. 

Lay  by  these  : 

Sing  willow,  willow,  willow; 
Prithee,  hie  thee  :  he'll  come  anon. — 

Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garland. 

II. 
Let  nobody  blame  him,  his  scorn  I  approve, — 

Nay,  that  's  not  next. — Hark  !    who  is  't  that 
knocks? 
Emil.  It  's  the  wind. 

Des.  I  call'd  my  love,  false  love ;  but  what  said  he  then  ? 

Sing  willow,  &c. 
If  I  court  mo  women  you'll  couch  with  mo  men. 

So,  get  thee  gone  ;  good  night.     Mine  eyes  do 

itch; 
Doth  that  bode  weeping  ? 

E7nil.  'Tis  neither  here  nor  there. 

Des.  I  have  heard  it  said  so. — O,  these  men, 
these  men ! — 
Dost    thou    in    conscience    think,  —  tell    me, 

Emilia, — 
That  there  be  women  do  abuse  their  husbands 
In  such  gross  kind  ?  ^ 

Emil.  There  be  some  such,  no  question. 

Des.  Would'st  thou  do  such   a  deed  for  all 

the  woi'ld  ? 
Emil.  Why,  would  not  you  ? 
Des.  No,  by  this  heavenly  light! 

Emil.  Nor  I  neither  by  this  heavenly  light ; 
I  might  do  't  as  well  i'  the  dark. 


*  Singinff.  The  ordinary  reading  is  sighing,  which  is  sup- 
ported by  the  copy  of  the  old  ballad  given  in  Percy's  '  Re- 
liques.'  But  as  that  ballad  is  so  materially  departed  from  by 
Shakspere,  it  can  scarcely  be  called  an  authority  for  the 
change  of  a  word  from  tlie  original  text. 

b  This  speech  of  Desdemona,  and  Emilia's  answer,  are  not 
found  in  the  quarto. 


Act  IV.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNE  111. 


Des.  Would'st  thou  do  such  a  deed  for  all  the 
world? 

Emil.  The  world  's  a  huge  thing  :  'Tis  a  great 
price  for  a  small  vice. 

Des.  In  troth,  I  think  thou  would'st  not. 

Emil.  In  troth,  I  think  I  should  ;  and  undo't, 
when  I  had  done.  Marry,  I  would  not  do  such 
a  thing  for  a  joint-ring;*  nor  for  measures  of 
lawn ;  nor  for  gowns,  petticoats,  nor  caps,  nor 
any  petty  exhibition :  but,  for  all  the  whole 
world, — Why,  who  would  not  make  her  husband 
a  cuckold,  to  make  him  a  monarch  1  I  should 
venture  purgatory  for  't. 

Des.  Beshrew  me,  if  I  would  do  such  a  wrong 
for  the  whole  world. 

Emil.  Why,  the  wrong  is  but  a  wrong  i'  the 
world ;  and,  having  the  world  for  your  labour, 
'tis  a  wrong  in  your  own  world,  and  you  might 
quickly  make  it  right. 

Des.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  such  woman. 

Emil.  Yes,  a  dozen ;  and  as  many  to  the  van- 
tage, as  would  store  the  world  they  play'd  for. 
*  But,  I  do  think  it  is  their  husbands'  faults 

*  The  remainder  of  Emilia's  speech,  commencing  at  this 
line,  is  wanting  in  the  quarto. 


If  wives  do  fall :  Say,  that  they  slack  their  duties, 
And  pour  our  treasures  into  foreign  laps ; 
Or  else  break  out  in  peevish  jealousies, 
Throwing   restraint    upon    us ;    or,    say,    they 

strike  us, 
Or  scant  our  former  having  in  despite  ; 
Why,  we   have  galls ;    and,   though   we   have 

some  grace. 
Yet  have  we  some  revenge.   Let  husbands  know 
Their  wives  have  sense  like  them :  they  see,  and 

smell. 
And  have  their  palates  both  for  sweet  and  sour. 
As  husbands  have.     What  is  it  that  they  do, 
When  they  change  us  for  others?  Is  it  sport? 
I  think  it  is  :  And  doth  affection  breed  it  ? 
I  think  it  doth  :   Is  't  frailty  that  thus  errs? 
It  is  so  too  :  And  have  not  we  affections  ? 
Desires  for  sport  ?  and  frailty,  as  men  have  ? 
Then,  let  them  use  us  well :  else,  let  them  know, 
The  ills  we  do  their  ills  instruct  us  so. 

Des.  Good  night,   good  night :  Heaven  me 

such  uses  ^  send. 
Not  to  pick  bad  from  bad ;  but,  by  bad,  mend  ! 

\_Exeunt. 
*  Uses.    The  quarto,  usage. 


311 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF    ACT    IV. 


'  Scene  III. — "<SAe  had  a  song  of  unllow ^ 

In  Percy's'  Reliques  '  will  be  found  an  old  ballad, 
fVom  the  black-lefter  copy  in  the  Pepys  collection, 
entitled  '  A  Lover's  Complaint,  being  forsaken  of 
his  Love.'  Shakspere,  in  adopting  a  portion  of  this 
ballad,  accommodated  the  words  to  the  story  of 
'Poor  Barbarie.'  We  subjoin  four  stanzas  of  the 
original  fi-om  which  the  song  in  the  text  has  been 
formed : — 

"  A  poore  soule  sat  sighing  under  a  sicamore  tree ; 

O  willow,  \vinow,  willow  ! 
With  his  hand  on  his  bosom,  his  head  on  his  knee : 

O  willow,  willow,  willow ' 

O  willow,  willow,  willow  ! 
Sing,  O  the  greene  willow  shall  be  my  garland. 

Tlie  cold  streams  ran  by  him,  his  eyes  wept  apace ; 

O  willow,  willow,  willow  I 
The  salt  tears  fell  from  him,  which  drowned  his  face : 

O  willow,  &c. 
Sing,  O  the  greeue  willow,  &c. 


The  mute  birds  sate  by  him,  made  tame  by  his  mones: 

O  willow,  &c. 
The  salt  tears  fell  from  him,  which  softened  the  tones. 

O  willow,  &c. 
Sing,  O  the  greene  willow,  &c. 

Let  nobody  blame  me,  her  scoriies  I  do  prove  ; 

O  willow,  &c. 
She  was  borne  to  be  fair ;  I,  to  die  for  her  love. 

O  willow,  &e. 
Sing,  O  the  greene  willow,  &c. 

*  Scene  III. — '■'■  A  joint  ring.'''' 

Dryden,  in  Don  Sebastian,  has  described  such  a 
ring  with  a  minute  particularity  : — 

"  A  curious  artist  wrought  them. 

With  joints  so  close  as  not  to  be  perceiv'd  ; 
Yet  are  they  both  each  other's  counterpart ; 
Her  part  had  Juan  inscrib'd,  and  his  had  Zayda, 
(Youknowthosenamesare  theirs,)  and,  in  the  midst, 
A  heart  divided  in  two  halves  was  plac'd. 
Now,  if  the  rivets  of  those  rings  enclos'd 
Fit  not  each  other,  I  have  forg'd  this  lie  : 
But  if  they  join,  you  must  for  ever  part." 


312 


[Geueral  View  of  Famagusta.     From  Le  Krun— Voyaj,'e  eu  Orieut.] 


ACT    V. 


SCENE  I.—A  Street. 

Enter  Iago  and  Roderigo. 

lago.  Here,  stand  behind  this  bulk ;"  straight 
will  he  come  : 
Wear  thy  good  rapier  bare,  and  put  it  home  ; 
Quick,    quick;   fear    nothing;    I'll    be    at  thy 

elbow; 
It  makes  us,  or  it  mars  us ;  think  on  that, 
And  fix  most  firm  thy  resolution. 

Rod.  Be  near  at  hand ;  I  may  miscarry  in  't. 

Iago.  Here,  at  thy  hand ;  be  bold,  and  take 

thy  stand.**    \_Retires  to  a  little  distance. 

Rod.  I  have  no  great  devotion  to  the  deed  ; 

And  yet  he  hath  given  me  satisfying  reasons  : — 

'Tis  but  a  man  gone : — ^forth,  my  sword;  he  dies. 

[  Goes  to  his  stand. 

^  Bulk.  So  the  quarto;  the  folio  has  6n) A.  We  prefer  the 
more  intelligible  reading  of  hulk,  although  we  have  little 
iloubt  that  hark  was  correctly  used.  A  bar,  in  all  its  uses,  is 
a  defence — that  by  which  anything  is  fortified,  strengthened, 
or  defended. — (Tooke.)  A  bark,  as  we  ordinarily  receive  it, 
is  a  strong  vessel ;  but  Shakspere  may  have  here  used  it  as 
a  projecting  part  of  the  fortificatiou — a  buttress. 

"  Take  thy  stand.    Tlie  quarto,  take  thy  sword. 


Iago.  I  have  rubb'd  this  young  quat^  almost  to 

the  sense, 
And    he  grows  angry.     Now  whether  he  kill 

Cassio, 
Or  Cassio  him,  or  each  do  kill  the  other, 
Every  way  makes  my  gain  :  Live  Roderigo, 
He  calls  me  to  a  restitution  large 
Of  gold,  and  jewels,  that  I  bobb'd  from  him. 
As  gifts  to  Desdemona ; 
It  must  not  be  :  if  Cassio  do  remain, 
He  hath  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life 
That  makes  me  ugly  ;  and,  besides,  the  Moor 
May  unfold  me  to  him ;  there  stand  I  in  much 

peril : 
No,  he  must  die  : — But  so,  I  hear  him  coming. 

Enter  Cassio. 
Rod.  I  know  his  gait,  'tis  he  : — Villain,  thou 
diest. 
[^Rushes  from  his  post,  and  makes  a  pass  at 
Cassio. 

^  Quat.  The  quarto  reads  gnat.  Johnson  explains,  that 
a  fjuat,  in  the  midland  counties,  is  a  pimple,  which  by  rubbing 
is  made  to  smart,  or  is  rubbed  to  sense. 

313 


Act  V.) 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  1. 


Cas.  That  thrust  had  been  mine  enemy  indeed, 
But  that  my  coat  is  better  than  thou  know'st  ;"* 
I  will  make  proof  of  thine.'' 

[^Draws,  and  wounds  Roderigo. 
Rod.  O,  I  am  slain  ! 

[Iago  rushes  from  his  post,  cuts  Cassio 
behind  in  the  leg,  and  exit. 
Cas.  I    am   maim'd   for   ever: — Help,  hoa! 
murther!  murther!  \_Falls. 

Enter  Othello,   at  a  distance. 
0th.  The  voice  of  Cassio  : — Iago  keeps  his 

word. 
Rod.  O,  villain  that  I  am ! 
0th.  'Tis  even  so. 

Cas.  O,  help  !  hoa  !  light !  a  surgeon  ! 
0th.  'Tis  he ; — O  brave   Iago,  honest,   and 
just. 
That  hast  such  noble  sense  of  thy  friend's  wrong ! 
Thou    teachest  me: — Minion,    your   dear   lies 

dead, 
And  your  unblest  fate  hies :  = — Strumpet,  I  come : 
Forth  of  my  heart  those  charms,  thine  eyes,  are 

blotted ; 
Thy  bed,  lust-stain'd,  shall  with  lust's  blood  be 
spotted.  {_Ea:it. 

Enter  Lodovico  and  Gratiano,  at  a  distance. 

Cas.  What,  hoa!    no  watch?    no  passage ?'' 

murther !  murther ! 
G7a.  'Tis  some  mischance ;  the  voice*  is  very 

direful. 
Cas.  O,  help ! 
Lad.  Hark ! 

Rod.  O  wretched  villain  ! 

Lod.  Two  or  three  groan ; — 'tis  heavy  night : ' 
These  may  be  counterfeits  ;  let  's  think  't  unsafe 
To  come  in  to  the  cry  without  more  help. 

Rod.  No  body  come?  then  shall  I  bleed  to 
death. 

Enter  Iago. 

Lod.  Hark ! 

Gra.  Here  's  one  comes  in  his  shirt,  with  light 

and  weapons. 
Iago.  Who  's  there  ?  whose  noise  is  this  that 

cries  on  murther  ? 

*  Thou  knuw'st.     The  quarto,  thou  think' st. 

b  Malone  explains  that  Cassio's  speech  implies  that  lie 
wore  some  secret  armour.  The  cuo<  was,  on  the  contrary, 
the  buff  jerkin.    (See  Introductory  Notice.) 

•^  Your  unbless'd  fate  hies.  The  quarto,  your  fate  hies  apace. 

d  No  passage.    No  one  passing. 

^  The  voice.    The  quarto,  the  cry. 

f  The  quarto  reads,  and  so  in  the  modern  editions,  "  two 
or  three  groans — it  is  o  heavy  night."  Lodovico  does  not 
merel\-  say  that  tliere  are  two  or  three  groans  from  one  man, 
but  that  two  or  three  men  groan ;  and  he  adds,  "  these  may 
be  counterfeits."     Tis  heavy  night,  is,  'tis  dark  night 

314 


Lod.  We  do  not  know. 

Iago.  Do  you  not  hear  a  cry  ? 

Cas.  Here,  here;  for  heaven's  sake,  help  me. 
Iago.  What 's  the  matter  ? 

Gra.  This  is  Othello's  ancient,  as  I  take  it. 
Lod.  The  same,  indeed  ;  a  very  valiant  fellow. 
Iago.  What  are  you  here  that  cry  so  griev- 
ously ? 
Cas.  Iago?    O,    I    am    spoil'd,    undone  by 
villains ! 
Give  me  some  help. 

Iago.  O  me,  lieutenant !  what  villains  have 

done  this  ? 
Cas.  I  think  that  one  of  them  is  hereabout. 
And  cannot  make  away. 

Iago.  O  treacherous  villains ! — 

What  are  you  there  ?  come  in,  and  give  some 
help. 

[Z'o  Lodovico  and  Gratiano. 
Rod.  O,  help  me  here  ! 
Cas.  That's  one  of  them. 
Iago.  O  murderous  slave  !  O  villain  ! 

[Iago  stabs  Roderigo. 
Rod.  O  damn'd  Iago  !  O  inhuman  dog ! — 

[Dies." 
Iago.  Kill  men  i'  the  dark ! — Where  be  these 
bloody  thieves  ? — 
How  silent  is  this  town!  Hoa!  murther!  murther! 
What  may  you  be?  are  you  of  good  or  evil? 
Lod.  As  you  shall  prove  us,  praise  us. 
Iago.  Signior  Lodovico  ? 

Lod.  He,  sir. 

Iago.  I  cry  you  mercy;  Here's  Cassio  hurt 
by  villains. 
Gra.  Cassio? 

Iago.  How  is  't,  brother  ? 

Cas.  My  leg  is  cut  in  two. 
Iago.  Marry,  heaven  forbid  ! — 

Light,  gentlemen  ;  I'll  bind  it  with  my  shirt. 

Enter  Bianca. 

Bian.  What  is  the  matter,  hoa?  who  is  't  that 

cryd  ? 
Iago.  Who  is  't  that  cry'd  ? 
Bian.  O  my  dear  Cassio !  my  sweet  Cassio  ! 
O  Cassio  !  Cassio !  Cassio ! 

Iago.  O  notable  strimipet ! — Cassio,  may  you 

suspect 
Who  they  should  be  that  have  thus  mangled 

you? 
Cas.  No. 
Gra.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  thus  :  I  have 

been  to  seek  you. 

"  The  quarto  has  0,0,  01  which  seems  to  stand  in  the 
place  of  the  stage  direction,  dies. 


Act  v.] 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  II. 


lago.  Lend  me  a  garter :  So. — O,  for  a  chair, 
To  bear  him  easily  hence  ! 

Bian.  Alas,  he   faints  : — O  Cassio  !    Cassio  ! 

Cassio ! 
lago.  Gentlemen  all,  I  do  suspect  this  trash 
To  be  a  partj'^  in  this  injiuy. — 
Patience  awhile,  good  Cassio. — Come,  come  ; 
Lend  me  a  light. — Know  we  this  face,  or  no  ? 
Alas !  my  friend,  and  my  dear  countiyman, 
Roderigo?  no: — Yes,  sure;  yes,  'tis  lloderigo. 
Gra.  What,  of  Venice  ? 
lago.  Even  he,  sir  ;  did  you  know  him  ? 
Gra.  Know  him  ?  ay. 

lago.    Signior  Gratiano  ?   I  cry  your  gentle 
pardon  ; 
These  bloody  accidents  must  excuse  my  man- 
ners, 
That  so  neglected  you. 

Gra.  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 

lago.  How   do  you,   Cassio  ? — O,  a  chair,  a 

chair ! 
Gra.  Roderigo ! 

lago.  He,  he,  'tis  he : — O,  that's  well  said ; — 

the  chair  : —  \_A  chair  brought  in. 

Some  good  man  bear  him  carefully  from  hence ; 

I'll   fetch    the   general's    surgeon. — For    you, 

mistress,  [To  Bianca. 

Save  you  your  labour. — He  that  lies  slain  here, 

Cassio, 
Was  my  dear  friend :  What  malice  was  between 
you? 
Cas.  None  in  the  world ;  nor  do  I  know  the 

man. 
lago.  l_To  Bian.]  What,  look  you  pale? — O 
bear  him  o'  the  air. — 

[Cassio  and  Rod.  are  borne  off. 
Stay  you,   good  gentlemen.'' — Look  you  pale, 

mistress  ? 
Do  you  perceive  the  ghastness  of  her  eye? — 
Nay,  if  you  stare  we  shall  hear  more  anon  : — 
Behold  her  well :  I  praj'^  you  look  upon  her  ; 
Do   you  see,   gentlemen?    nay,   guiltiness  will 

speak, 
Though  tongues  were  out  of  use. 

Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  Alas,  what  is  the  matter  ?  what  is  the 

matter,  husband  ? 
lago,  Cassio   hath  here  been   set  on  in   the 
dark. 
By  Roderigo,  and  fellows  that  are  scap'd  ; 


'^  Gnnd  gentlemen.  The  quarto  reads,  gnnd  gentlewoman, 
which  Malone  adopts ;  but  Lodovico  and  Gratiano  are  going 
away  with  Cassio,  when  lago  stops  them,  to  hear  his  accusa- 
tion of  Bianca. 


He  's  almost  slain,  and  Roderigo  quite  dead.* 
Emil.    Alas,   good   gentleman !     alas,    good 

Cassio ! 
lago.  This  is  the  fruits  of  whoring. — Prithee, 
Emilia, 
Go  know  of  Cassio  where  he  supp'd  to-night : — 
What,  do  you  shake  at  that  ? 

Bian.  He  supp'd  at  my  house;  but  I  therefore 

shake  not. 
lago.  O,  did  he  so?  I  charge  you,  go  with 

me. 
Emil.  O,  fie  upon  thee,  strumpet ! 
Bian.  I  am  no  strumpet ;  but  of  life  as  honest 
As  you  that  thus  abuse  me. 

Emil.  As  I  ?  fie  upon  thee  ! 

lago.  Kind  gentlemen,  let's  go  see  poor  Cassio 
dress'd : — 
Come,    mistress,    you    must    tell    us    another 

tale. — 
Emilia,  run  you  to  the  citadel, 
And  tell  my  lord  and  lady  what  hath  happ'd. — 
Will  you  go  on  afore  ?  This  is  the  night, 


That  either  makes  me  or  fordoes  me  quite. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Bedchamber  :^   Desdemona  in 
bed  asleep.     A  light  burning. 


my 


Enter  Othello. 

0th.  It  is   the  cause,   it  is  the   cause, 
sovil, — 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars ! — 
It  is  the  cause. — Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood  ; 
Nor  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster. 

[  Takes  off  his  sword. 
Yet  she  must  die,  else  she'll  betray  more  men. 

Put  out  the  light,  and  then Put  out  the 

light?'' 
If  I  quench  thee,  thou  flaming  minister  ! 


"  Quite  dead.    Tlie  quarto  omits  quite. 

b  We  have  pointed  tliis  controverted  passage  according  to 
a  suggestion  of  Warburton.  It  is  usually  printed  as  it  is 
found  in  the  original  copies : — 

"  Put  out  the  light,  and  then  put  out  the  light." 

Warburton's  explanation  of  his  reading  is  as  follows: — "The 
meaning  is,  I  will  put  out  the  light,  and  then  proceed  to  the 
execution  of  my  purjiose.  But,  the  expression  of  putting  out 
the  light  bringing  to  mind  the  effects  of  the  extinction  of  the 
light  of  life,  he  breaks  short,  and  questions  himself  alx)ut 
the  effects  of  this  metaphorical  extinction,  introduced  by  a 
repetition  of  his  first  words,  as  much  as  to  say, — But  hold, 
let  me  first  weigh  the  reflections  which  this  expression  so  na- 
turally excites."  The  reading  of  the  folio  in  a  subsequent 
line,  "but  once  put  out  th^/  light,"  strengthens,  we  think, 
this  interpretation  of  Warburton's.  Instead  of  this,  tlie  edi- 
tors have  adopted  the  weaker  reading  of  the  quarto,  "  but 
imce  put  out  thine." 

315 


Act  v.] 


OTHELLO. 


[ScEIfE  II. 


I  can  again  thy  former  light  restore, 

Should  I  repent  me : — but  once  put  out  thy 

light, 
Thou  cunning'st  pattern  of  excelling  nature, 
I  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 
That  can  thy  light  relume.  When  I  have  pluck'd 

thy  rose, 
I  cannot  give  it  vital  growth  again, 
It  needs  must   wither  : — I'll  smell  thee  on  the 
tree." —  \_Kissmg  her. 

O  balmy  breath,  that  doth  almost  persuade 
Justice  to  break  her  sword  ! — One  more,  one 

more. — 
Be   thus  when  thou  art  dead,  and  I  will  kill 

thee. 
And  love  thee  after : — One  more,  and  that's  the 

last : 
So  sweet  was  ne'er  so  fatal.     I  must  weep. 
But  they  are  cruel  tears :    This  sorrow  's  hea- 
venly; 
It  strikes  where  it  doth  love. — She  wakes — 
Des.  Who's  there?  Othello? 
0th.  Ay,  Desdemona. 

Des.  Will  you  come  to  bed,  my  lord  ? 
0th.  Have  you  pray'd  to-night,  Desdemon  ? 
Des.  Ay,  my  lord. 

0th.  If  you  bethink  yourself  of  any  crime 
Unreconcil'd  as  yet  to  heaven  and  grace, 
Solicit  for  it  straight. 

Des.  Alack,  my  lord,  what  may  you  mean  by 

that? 
0th.  Well,  do  it,  and  be  brief;   I  will  walk  by : 
I  would  not  kill  thy  unprepared  spirit ; 
No, — Heavens  forfend. — I  would  not  kill  thy 
soul. 
Des.  Talk  you  of  killing  ? 
0th.  Ay,  I  do. 

Des.  Then  heaven 

Have  mercy  on  me  ! 

0th.  Amen,  with  all  my  heart ! 

Des.  If  you  say  so,  I  hope  you  will  not  kill 

me. 
0th.  Humph  ! 

Des.  And  yet  I  fear  you;    for  you  are  fatal 
then. 
When  your  eyes  roll  so :  Why  I  should  fear  I 

know  not. 
Since  guiltiness  I  know  not;  but  yet,  I  feel,  I  fear. 
0th.  Think  on  thy  sins. 
Des.  They  are  loves  I  bear  to  you. 

Otli.  Ay,  and  for  that  thou  diest. 
Des.  That   death 's   unnatural   that   kills  for 
loving. — 


III  smell  thee. 

316 


The  quarto,  111  smell  it. 


Alas,  why  gnaw  you  so  your  nether  lip  ? 
Some  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  frame  : 
These  are  portents ;  but  yet  I  hope,  I  hope. 
They  do  not  point  on  me. 

0th.  Peace,  and  be  still ! 

Des.  I  will  so  :  What 's  the  matter  1 

0th.  That  handkerchief,  which  I  so  lov'd  and 
gave  thee. 
Thou  gav'st  to  Cassio. 

Des.  No,  by  my  life  and  soul ; 

Send  for  the  man  and  ask  him. 

Olh.  Sweet  soul,  take  heed. 

Take  heed  of  perjury ;   thou'rt  on  thy  death- 
bed. 

Des.  Ay,  but  not  yet  to  die. 

0th.  Yes,  presently; 

Therefore  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin  ; 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath 
Cannot  remove,  nor  choke,  the  strong  concep- 
tion, 
That  I  do  groan  withal.     Thou  art  to  die. 

Des.  O,  heaven  have  mercy  on  me  ! 

0th.  I  say,  amen. 

Des.  And  have  you  mercy  too  ! — I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life  ;  never  lov'd  Cassio, 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  heaven 
As  I  might  love  :  I  never  gave  him  token. 

0th.  By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handkerchief  in 's 
hand. 

0  perjur'd  woman  !  thou  dost  stone  my  heart, 
And  mak'st  me  call  what  I  intend  to  do, 

A  murther,  which  I  thought  a  sacrifice  : 

1  saw  the  handkerchief. 

Des.  He  found  it  then  ; 

I  never  gave  it  him  : — Send  for  him  hither; 
Let  him  confess  a  truth. 

0th.  He  hath  confess'd. 

Des.  What,  my  lord? 

0th.  That  he  hath  us'd  thee. 

Des.  How  ?  unlawfully  ? 

0th.  Ay. 

Des.  He  will  not  say  so. 

0th.  No,  his  mouth  is  stopp'd ; 

Honest  lago  hath  ta'en  order  for 't. 

Des.    O,   my  fear  interprets," — What,  is  he 
dead? 

0th.  Had  all  his  hairs  been  lives,  my  great 
revenge 
Had  stomach  for  them  all. 

Des.  Alas  !  he  isbetray'd,  and  I  undone. 

0th.  Out,  strumpet !   Weep'st  thou  for  him  to 
my  face  ? 

Des.  O  banish  me,  my  lord,  but  kill  me  not. 

"  The  quarto,  m;/  fear  interprets  then- 


Act  V.J 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  II. 


0th.  Down,  strumpet ! 

Des.  Kill  me  to-morrow,  let  me  live  to-night. 
0th.  Nay,  if  you  strive. — 
Des.  But  half  an  hour. 

0th.  Being  done, 

There  is  no  pause." 

Des.  But  while  I  say  one  prayer. 

0th.  It  is  too  late.  \_He  smothers  her. 

Emil.  \_Within.'\  My   lord!    my  lord !    what 

hoa !  my  lord !  my  lord ! 
0th.  What  noise  is  this? — Not  dead  !  not  yet 
quite  dead? 
I,  that  am  cruel,  am  yet  merciful ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  linger  in  thy  pain. — 
So,  so.*" 

Emil.  [  Within.']  What  hoa,  my  lord!  my  lord! 
0th.  Who's  there? 

Emil.   [  Within.']  O,   good  my  lord,  I  would 

speak  a  word  with  you. 
0th.  Yes  ; — 'tis  Emilia; — hy  and  by  : — She's 
dead. 
'Tis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death  ; 
The  noise  was  high. — Ha !  no  more  moving  ? 
Still  as  the  grave.    Shall  she  come  in  ?     Were't 

good? 
I  think  she  stirs  again  : — No. — What 's  best  to 

do?<= 
If  she  come  in  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife  : 
My  wife  !    my  wife !  what  wife  ? — I    have    no 

wife : 
O,  insupportable  !  O  heavy  hour  ! 
Methinks  it  should  be  now  a  huge  eclipse 
Of  sun  and  moon,  and  that  the  affrighted  globe 
Did  yawn  at  alteration. 

Emil.   [^JVithin.]   I  do  beseech  you  that  I  may 
speak  with  you, 
O,  good  my  lord ! 

0th.  I  had  forgot  thee :  O,  come  in,  Emilia : — 

Soft, — by  and  by : — Let  me  the  curtains  draw. — 

Where  art  thou?    What's  the  matter  with  thee 

now  ?  [  Unlocks  the  door. 


°  A  correspondent  suggests  that  the  reading  should  be, 
"  being  down,  there  is  no  pause."  We  cannot  agree  to  receive 
Otliello's  meaning  so  literally.  He  certainly  has  already  said, 
Down,  strumpet,  and  has  probably  at  that  moment  commenced 
the  death-struggle;  for  he  adds,  "nay,  if  you  strive."  But 
the  words  hexng  done  appear  to  us  to  have  a  much  greater 
depth  of  meaning.  They  are  not  addressed  to  Desdemona, 
but  exhibit  what  is  passing  in  Othello's  mind.  Tlie  conflict 
between  his  love  and  his  wounded  honour  is  over ;  he  looks 
upon  the  act  of  retribution  as  done  when  he  has  lifted  his 
murderous  hand  against  his  wife.  It  is  done.  For  the  mere 
completion  of  the  violence,  wliich  will  then  be  mercy,  "  there 
is  no  pause." 

*>  There  is  no  stage  direction  at  this  place  in  the  original 
copies ;  but  it  is  most  probable  that  the  poet  intended  Othello 
here  to  stab  Desdemona,  according  to  the  jiractice  of  the  mo- 
dern sta^e.  His  previous  resolution,  "I'll  not  shed  her 
blood,"  is  forgotten  in  the  agony  and  terror  of  the  moment, 
when  he  says,  not  dead,  nut  yet  quite  dead. 

«  rVhat  's  best  to  do  f    The  quarto,  IVhat  's  the  best  f 

Tbaoedies. — Vol.   I.         2  S 


Enter  Emilia. 

Emil.  O,  my  good  lord,  yonder's  foul  murthers 
done. 

0th.  What?  now? 

Emil.  But  now,  my  lord  ! 

0th.  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  moon  ; 
She  comes  more  nearer  earth  ^    than   she  was 

wont. 
And  makes  men  mad. 

Emil.  Cassio,  my  lord,  hath   kill'd  a  young 
Venetian, 
Call'd  Roderigo. 

Olh.  Roderigo  kill'd! 

And  Cassio  kill'd ! 

Emil.  No,  Cassio  is  not  kill'd. 

0th.  Not  Cassio  kill'd?    Then  murther's  out 
of  tune, 
And  sweet  revenge  grows  harsh. 

Des.  O  falsely,  falsely  murder 'd! 

Emil.  Alas ;  what  cry  is  that  ? 

0th.  That!  what? 

Emil.  Out,    and  alas  !    that  was   my  lady's 
voice : — 
Help !  help,  hoa !  help  ! — O  lady,  speak  again  ! 
Sweet  Desdemona !  O,  sweet  mistress,  speak  ! 

Des.  A  guiltless  death  I  die. 

Emil.  O,  who  hath  done 

This  deed? 

Des.         Nobody;  I  myself ;  farewell: 
Commend  me  to  my  kind  lord.     O,  farewell. 

\_Dies. 

0th.  Why,  how  should  she  be  murder 'd  ? 

Emil.  Alas,  who  knows  ? 

0th.  You  heard  her  say  herself,  it  was  not  I. 

Emil.  She  said  so  :  I  must  needs  report  the 
truth. 

0th.  She  's,  like  a  liar,  gone  to  burning  hell ; 
'Twas  I  that  kill'd  her. 

Emil.  O,  the  more  angel  she, 

And  you  the  blacker  devil ! 

0th.  She  turn'd  to  folly,  and  she  was  a  whore. 

E7nil.  Thou  dost  belie  her,   and  thou  art  a 
devil. 

0th.  She  was  false  as  water. 

Emil.  Thou  art  rash  as  fire,  to  say 

That  she  was  false ;  O,  she  was  heavenly  true  ! 

0th.  Cassio  did  top  her :  ask  thy  husband  else. 
O,  I  were  damn'd  beneath  all  depth  in  hell, 
But  that  I  did  proceed  upon  just  grounds 
To  this  extremity  :  Thy  husband  knew  it  all. 

Emil.  My  husband? 

0th.  Thy  husband. 


'  More  nearer  earth.    Tiie  quarto,  more  near  the  earth. 

.317 


Act  V.J 


OTHELLO. 


[Scene  11. 


Emil.  That  slie  was  false  to  wedlock  ? 

0th.  Ay,  with  Cassio. 

Had  she  been  true, 

If  heaven  would  make  me  such  another  world 
Of  one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite, 
I'd  not  have  sold  her  for  it. 

Emil.  My  husband  ? 

0th.     Ay,  'twas  he  that  told  me  on  her  first ;  * 
An  honest  man  he  is,  and  hates  the  slime 
That  sticks  on  filthy  deeds. 

Emil.  My  husband? 

0th.  What  needs  this  iterance,  woman  ?     I 
say  thy  husband. 

Emil.  O  mistress,  villainy  hath  made  mocks 
with  love ! — 
My  husband  say  that  she  was  false? 

0th.  He,  woman ; 

I  say,  thy  husband  :  Dost  understand  the  word  ? 
My  friend,  thy  husband,  honest,  honest  lago. 

Emil.  If  he  say  so,  may  his  pernicious  soul 
Rot  half  a  grain  a  day  !  he  lies  to  the  heart ; 
She  was  too  fond  of  her  most  filthy  bargain. 

0th.  Ha! 

Emil.         Do  thy  worst ; 
This  deed  of  thine  is  no  nioi'e  worthy  heaven, 
Thau  thou  wast  worthy  her. 

0th.  Peace,  you  were  the  best. 

Emil.  Thou  hast  not  half  that  power  to  do  me 
harm. 
As  I  have  to  be  hurt.     O  gull !    O  dolt ! 
As  ignorant  as  dirt !  thou  hast  done  a  deed, — 
I  care  not  for  thy  sword  ;  I'll  make  thee  known. 
Though  I  lost  twenty  lives  : — Help!  help!  hoa! 

help ! 
The  Moor  hath  kill'd  my  mistress.     Murther ! 
mm'ther ! 

Enter  Montano,  Gratiano,  and  Iago. 
Mon.   What  is  the  matter! — How    now,  ge- 
neral? 
Emil.  O,    are   you   come,    Iago  ?    you  have 
done  well, 
That  men  must  lay  their  murthers  on  your  neck. 
Gra.  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Emil.  Disprove  this  villain,   if  thou  be'st  a 
man : 
He   says,    thou  toldst   him   that  his  wife    was 

false : 
I   know    thou    didst   not,    thou'rt   not   such    a 

villain: 
Speak,  for  my  heart  is  full. 

layo.  I  told  him  what  I  thought ;  and  told  no 
more 


That  tuld  me  on  her  first. 

318 


Tlie  ijuarto,  thattold  mc first. 


Than  what  he  found  himself  was  apt  and  true. 
Emil.  But  did  you  ever  tell  him  she  was  false  ? 
Iago.  I  did. 

Emil.  You  told  a  lie ;  an  odious,  damned  lie  ; 
Upon  my  soul,  a  lie  ;  a  wicked  lie  : — 
She    false    with    Cassio  ! — Did    you    say   with 
Cassio? 
Iago.  With   Cassio,   mistress :  Go  to,  charm 

your  tongue. 
Emil.  I  will   not  charm   my  tongue  ;    I  am 
bound  to  speak  ; 
My  mistress  here  lies  murther'd  in  her  bed. 
All.  O  heavens  forfend! 
Emil.  And  your  reports  have  set  the  murther 

on. 
0th.  Nay,  stare  not,  masters;   it  is  true,  in- 
deed. 
Gra,  'Tis  a  strange  truth. 
Mon.  O  monstrous  act ! 

Emil.  Villainy,  villainy,  villainy  ! — 

I  think  upon  't, — I  think, — I    smell  *t; — O  vil- 
lainy ! — 
I  thought  so  then  ; — I  '11  kill  myself  for  grief. — 

0  villainy,  villainy  ! 

Iago.  What,  are  you  mad  ?  I  charge  you,  get 
you  home. 

Emil.  Good  gentlemen,  let  me  have  leave  to 
speak ; 
'Tis  proper  I  obey  him,  but  not  now  : 
Perchance,  Iago,  I  will  ne'er  go  home. 

0th.  Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 

Emil.  Nay,  lay  thee  down,  and  roar  : 

For  thou  hast  kill'd  the  sweetest  innocent, 
That  e'er  did  lift  up  eye. 

0th.  O,  she  was  foul ! — 

1  scarce  did  know  you,  uncle :   There  lies  your 

niece, 
Whose  breath,  indeed,  these  hands  have  newly 

stopp'd : 
I  know  this  act  shows  honnble  and  grim. 

Gra.  Poor  Desdemon  !  I  am  glad  thy  father  's 

dead ; 
Thy  match  was  mortal  to  him,  and  pure  grief 
Shore  his  old  thread  in  twain :  did  he  live  now. 
This  sight  would  make  him  do  a  desperate  turn, 
Yea,  curse  his  better  angel  from  his  side. 
And  fall  to  reprobance." 

0th.   'Tis  pitiful ;  but  yet  Iago  knows. 
That  she  with  Cassio  hath  the  act  of  shame 
A  thousand  times  committed  ;  Cassio  confess'd 

it: 
And  she  did  gratify  his  amorous  works 
With  that  recognizance  and  pledge  of  love 

*  Reprubance.     The  quarto,  reprobatiun. 


Act  V,] 


OlMIELLO. 


fSfKNF.    II. 


Which  I  first  gave  her;   I  saw  it  in  his  hand  ; 
It  was  a  handkerchief,  an  antique  token 
My  father  gave  my  motlier. 

Emil.  O  heaven !  O  heavenly  powers ! 
lago.  Come,  hokl  your  peace. 

E7nil.  'Twill  out,  'twill  out! — I  hold  my  peace, 
sir?  no ; 
No,  I  will  speak  as  liberal  as  the  north ; " 
Let  heaven,  and  men,  and  devils,  let  them  all. 
All,  all,  cry  shame  against  me,  yet  I'll  speak. 
lago.  Be  wise,  and  get  you  home. 
EjuU.  I  will  not. 

[Iago  offers  to  sfab  Iiis  wife. 
Gra.  Fie ! 

Your  sword  upon  a  woman  ? 

Emil.  O  thou  dull  Moor  !  that  handkerchief 
thou  speak'st  of 
I  found  by  fortune,  and  did  give  my  husband. 
For  often  with  a  solemn  earnestness, 
(More  than,  indeed,  belong'd  to  such  a  trifle,) 
He  begg'd  of  me  to  steal  it. 
Joffo.  Villainous  whore  ! 

Emil.  She  give  it  Cassio !  no,  alas,  I  found  it, 
And  I  did  give  't  my  husband. 

Iago.  Filth,  thou  liest. 

Emil.  By  heaven,  I  do  not ;  I  do  not,  gentle- 
men : 
O  murderous  coxcomb  !  what  should  such  a  fool 
Do  with  so  good  a  wife  ? 

[Iago  stabs  Emilia,  fhe>t  nnis  out. 

0th.  Are  there  no  stones  in  heaven, 

>  But    what   serve    for    the    thunder? — Precious 

villain ! 

Gra.  The  woman  falls  ;  sure  he  has  kill'd  his 

wife. 
Emil.  Ay,   ay  :  O,  lay  me  by  my  mistress' 

side  ! 
Gra.  He's  gone,  but  his  wife  's  kill'd. 
Mon.  'Tis  a  notorious  villain.     Take  you  this 
weapon, 
Which  I  have  hei-e  recover'd  from  the  Moor : 
Come,  guard  the  door  without ;  let  him  not  pass, 
But  kill  him  rather;   I'll  after  that  same  villain. 
For  'tis  a  damned  slave. 

\Exit  MONTANO.'' 

Otli.  I  am  not  valiant  neither. 

But  every  puny  whipster  gets  my  sword . — 
But  why  should  honour  outlive  honesty  ? 
Let  it  go  all. 

Emil.         What  did  thy  song  bode,  lady  ? 
Hark,  can'st  thou  hear  me  ?  I  will  play  the  swan, 

*  As  liberal  as  the  north.  The  quarto,  as  liberal  as  the  air. 
Liberal  is  used  in  the  sense  of  unrestrained— uncontrolled. 

•"  The  ordinary  stage-direction  is  here,  Ereunt  Mimtano 
and  (iratianii ;  and  Gratianu  is  afterwards  made  to  re-enter. 
See  Illustration,  p.  322. 


And    die   in   music ;  —  '  Willow,   willow,    wil- 
low.'— 
Moor,   she  was   chaste ;    she  lov'd  thee,  cruel 

Moor ; 
So  come  my  soul  to  bliss,  as  I  speak  true ; 
So  speaking  as  I  think,  alas,  I  die.  \^Dies. 

0th.  I  have  another  weapon  in  this  chamber, 
It  is  a  sword  of  Spain,  the  ice-brook's  temper; — '' 
O,  here  it  is  : — Uncle,  I  must  come  forth. 

Gra.    If  thou   attempt  it,    it  will  cost   thee 
dear ; 
Thou  hast  no  weapon,  and  perforce  must  suffer. 
0th.  Look  in  upon  me  then,  and  speak  with 
me. 
Or,  naked  as  I  am,  I  will  assault  thee. 
Gra.  What  is  the  matter? 
0th.  Behold  !  I  have  a  weapon  ; 

A  better  never  did  itself  sustain 
Upon  a  soldier's  thigh  :  I  have  seen  the  day. 
That  with  this  little  arm,  and  this  good  sword, 
I  have  made  my  way  through  more  impediments 
Than   twenty  times  your  stop: — But,   O    vain 

boast ! 
Who  can  control  his  fate  ?  'tis  not  so  now. — 
Be  not  afraid  though  you  do  see  me  weapon 'd ; 
Here  is  my  journey's  end,  here  is  my  butt, 
And  veiy  sea-mark  of  my  utmost  sail. 
Do  you  go  back  dismay'd  ?  'tis  a  lost  fear  ; 
Man  but  a  rush  against  Othello's  breast, 
And  he  retires  ; — Where  should  Othello  go? — 
Now,  how   dost  thou  look  now  ?     O  ill-starr'd 

wench ! 
Pale  as   thy   smock !    when  we   shall   meet  at 

compt. 
This  look  of  thine  will  hurl  my  soul  from  heaven, 
And  fiends  will  snatch  at  it.     Cold,   cold,  my 

girl? 
Even  like  thy  chastity. — 
O  cursed,  cursed  slave ! — Whip  me,  ye  devils, 
From  the  possession  of  this  heavenly  sight ! 
Blow  me  about  in  winds !  roast  me  in  sulphur ! 
Wash  me  in  steep-down  gulfs  of  liquid  fire  ! — 
O  Desdemon  !   dead  Desdemon  !  dead.    Oh,  oh. 

Enter  Lodovico,  Montano,  Cassio,  carried  in  a 
chair,  a7id  Ofliicers,  with  Iago,  prisoner. 

hod.  Where  is  this  rash  and  most  unfortunate 

man? 
0th.  That 's  he  that  was  Othello;  here  I  am. 
Lod.  Where  is  that  viper?  bring  the  villain 

forth. 


"  Ice-briioh's  temper.  Pope  and  others  would  read  Ehro's 
temper.  The  practice  of  the  Spaniards  to  temper  their  swords 
by  plungmt;  them,  when  liot  from  the  forge,  into  waters  of 
an  icv  coldness,  is  uoticid  bv  Martial  aud  .lustin. 

.319 


Act  v.] 


OTHELLO. 


[SOENF    II. 


-but 


0th.  I   look   down   towards  his   feet; 
that  's  a  fable  : 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  devil  I  cannot  kill  thee. 

[Othello  wounds  Iago. 

Lod.  Wrench  his  sword  from  him. 

Iago.  I  bleed,  sir  ;  but  not  kill'd. 

0th.  I  am  not  sorry  neither ;  I'd  have  thee 
live  ; 
For,  in  my  sense,  'tis  happiness  to  die. 

Lod.  O  thou  Othello,  that  was  once  so  good, 
Fall'n  in  the  practice  of  a  cursed  slave, 
What  shall  be  said  to  thee  ? 

0th.  Why,  any  thing  : 

An  honourable  murderer,  if  you  will ; 
For  nought  I  did  in  hate,  but  all  in  honour. 

Lod.   This   wretch   hath   part   confess'd   his 
villainy : 
Did  you  and  he  consent  in  Cassio's  death  ? 

0th.  Ay. 

Cas.  Dear  general,  I  never  gave  you  cause. 

0th.  I  do  believe  it,  and  I  ask  your  pardon. 
Will  you,  I  pray,  demand  that  demi-devil, 
Why  he  hath  thus  ensnar'd  my  soul  and  body  ? 

Iago.  Demand  me  nothing  :  What  you  know, 
you  know  : 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word. 

Lod.  What  ?  not  to  pray  ? 

Gra.  Torments  will  ope  your  lips. 

0th.  Well,  thou  dost  best. 

Lod.  Sir,  you  shall  understand  what  hath  be- 
fall'n, 
Which,  as  I  think,  you  know  not :    Here  is  a 

letter. 
Found  in  the  pocket  of  the  slain  Roderigo  ; 
And  here,  another  :  the  one  of  them  imports 
The  death  of  Cassio  to  be  undertook 
By  Roderigo. 

0th.  O  villain  ! 

Cas.  Most  heathenish  and  most  gross  ! 

Lod.  Now  here's  another  discontented  paper, 
Found  in  his  pocket  too  ;  and  this,  it  seems, 
Roderigo  meant  to  have  sent  this  damned  vil- 
lain ; 
But  that,  belike,  Iago  in  the  interim 
Came  in  and  satisfied  him. 

0th.  O  thou  pernicious  caitiff ! — 

How  came  you,  Cassio,  by  that  handkerchief 
That  was  my  wife's  ? 

Cas.  I  found  it  in  my  chamber; 

And  he  himself  confess'd,  but  even  now. 
That  there  he  dropp'd  it,  for  a  special  purpose, 
Which  wrovight  to  his  desire. 

0th.  O  fool!  fool!  fool! 

Cas.  There  is,  besides,  in  Roderigo's  letter, — 
How  he  upbraids  Iago,  that  he  made  him 
320 


Brave  me  upon  the  watch  ;  whereon  it  came 
That  I  was  cast :  And  even  but  now  he  spake. 
After  long  seeming  dead, — Iago  hurt  him, 
Iago  set  him  on. 

Lod.  You  must  forsake  this  room,   and  go 

with  us  ; 
Your  power  and  yom*  command  is  taken  off, 
And  Cassio  rules  in  Cyprus.     For  this  slave, — 
If  there  be  any  cunning  cruelty. 
That  can  torment  him  much,  and  hold  him  long. 
It  shall  be  his  :   You  shall  close  prisoner  rest, 
Till  that  the  nature  of  yoin-  fault  be  known 
To  the  Venetian  state  : — Come,  bring  away.* 

0th.  Soft  you  ;  a  word  or  two,  before  you  go. 
I  have  done  the  state  some  service,  and  they 

know  't ; 
No  more  of  that : — I  pray  you,  in  your  letters. 
When  you  shall  these  vmlucky  deeds  relate, 
Speak  of  me  as  I  am  ;  nothing  extenuate. 
Nor  set  down  aught  in  malice  :  then  must  you 

speak 
Of  one  that  lov'd  not  wisely,  but  too  well ; 
Of  one,  not  easily  jealous,  but,  being  wrought, 
Perplex'd  in  the  extreme  ;  of  one,  whose  hand, 
Like  the  base  Indian,''  threw  a  pearl  away. 
Richer  than  all  his  tribe  ;  of  one,  whose  subdu'd 

eyes, 
Albeit  luuised  to  the  melting  mood, 

"  Bring  away.    The  quarto,  hring  him  au-ay. 

b  Indian.  Tlie  first  quarto  reads  distinctly,  Indian — the 
first  I'olio,  ludean.  We  might  liave  tliought  that  there  was 
only  a  substitution  in  this  reading  of  u  for  n,  had  we  not 
turned  to  all  the  passages  in  that  edition  where  Indian  occurs, 
and  found  it  invariably  spelt  I-n-d-i  a-n.  The  controversy 
as  to  reading  Indian,  or  Judean,  and  who  was  t/ie  base  Judean, 
occupies  six  pages  of  the  variorum  editions.  Theobald  main- 
tained that  he  was  "  Herod,  who,  in  a  fit  of  blind  jealousy, 
threw  away  such  a  jewel  of  a  wife  as  Mariamne  was  to  him." 
Steevens  brings  forward  an  old  story  of  a  Jew,  wliich  he  has 
read  in  some  book,  who  threw  a  pearl  into  the  Adriatic. 
This  story  looks  excessively  like  a  forgery,  in  which  art 
Steevens  dabbled.  Steevens  will  not  have  the  Indian,  be- 
cause lie  thinks  base  is  an  improper  epithet.  Malone  rejects 
him,  because  the  word  tribe  appears  to  have  a  peculiarly 
Hebrew  signification.  To  show  how  far  conjecture  may  be 
carried,  we  may  mention  that  a  correspondent  wishes  to  im- 
press upon  us  that  the  allusion  was  to  Judas  Iscariot.  Bos- 
well,  in  a  very  sensible  note,  shows  that  fri'ftp  meant  in  Shak- 
spere  s  day  kindred;  that  base  is  used  in  the  sense  of  igno- 
rant ;  and,  what  is  very  important,  that  two  poets  after  Shak- 
spere,  have  described  the  Indians  as  casting  away  jewels 
of  which  they  knew  not  the  value.  Habbington,  in  his 
'  Castara,'  has  these  lines  : — 

"  So  the  unskilful  Indian  those  bright  gems 
Which  might  add  majesty  to  diadems 
'Mvng  the  ivaves  scatters." 
And   Sir  Edward  Howard,  in  '  The  Woman's     Conquest, 
has — 

"  Behold  my  queen — 
Wlio  with  no  more  concern  I'll  cast  away 
Than  Indians  do  a  pearl,  that  ne'er  did  know 
Its  value." 
The  preference  of  Coleridge  for  Indian  lias  great  weight  with 
us.     He  says  "  Othello  wishes  to  excuse  himself  on  the  score 
of  ignorance,  and  yet  not  to  excuse   himself — to  excuse  him- 
self by  accusing,     Tliis  struggle  of  feeling  is  fiuely  conveyed 
in  the  word  '  base,'  which  is  applied  to  the  rude  Indian,  not 
in  his  own  character,  but  as  the    momentary  representative 
of  Othello's." 


.\C!t    V.J 


OTHELLO. 


[SCKNF    H. 


Drop  tears  as  fast  as  the  Arabian  trees 
Their  medicinable  gum :  Set  you  down  tliis  : 
And  say,  besides, — that  in  Aleppo  once, 
Where  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian,  and  traduc'd  the  state, 
I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 
And  smote  him — thus.  [^Stabs  himself. 

Lod.  O  bloody  period  ! 

Gra.  All  that  is  spoke  is  marr'd. 

0th.    I   kiss'd  thee,   ere  I   kill'd  thee  ; — No 
way  but  this, 
Killing  myself  to  die  upon  a  kiss.  [^Dies. 

Cas.  This  did  I  fear,  but  thought  he  had  no 
weapon  ; 


For  he  was  great  of  heart. 

Lod.  O  Spartan  dog ! 

More  fell  than  anguish,  hunger,  or  the  sea  ! 
Look  on  the  tragic  loading  of  this  bed  ; 

[7'o  Iago. 
This  is  thy  work  :  the  object  poisons  sight ; — 
Let  it  be  hid. — Gratiano,  keep  the  house, 
And  seize  upon  the  fortunes  of  the  Moor, 
For    they    succeed    on    you.  —  To    you,    lord 

governor, 
Remains  the  censure  of  this  hellish  villain  ; 
The  time,  the  place,  the  torture, — O  enforce  it ! 
Myself  will  straight  aboard  ;  and,  to  the  state, 
This  heavy  act  with  heavy  heart  relate. 

{_Exeunt. 


[Venetian  Glaive,  Halberds,  and  Sword  of  an  Estradiot.     Moyrick's  Collection.] 


321 


ILLUSTRATION    OF   ACT   V. 


'  Scene  II. — '^  A  bedchamber,  8^-c." 

The   stage  directions  in  the   original   copies   of 
Shakspere  are  very  scantily  supplied ;  and  we  have 
no  indications  either  of  general  or  particular  locali- 
ties.    In  tlie  scene  before  us,  the  original  direction 
is,  enter  Othello,  and  Desdemona  in  her  bed.     It  ap- 
pears to  us  that,  to  understand  this  scene  properly, 
we  must  refer  to  tlie  peculiar  construction  of  the 
ancient  theatres.      In  Romeo  and  Juliet  (Illustra- 
tions of  Act  III.)  we  have  described  the  balcony  or 
upper   stage,  in  explanation  of  the  old  direction, 
enter  Romeo  and  Juliet  aloft.     We  there  gave  Ma- 
lone's  description  of  the  uses  of  this  balcony.     Mr. 
Collier  has  also  tlius  described  another  arrangement 
of  tlie  old  stage,  independent  of  the  balcony:  "  Be- 
sides the  curtain  in  front  of  the  stage,  which  con- 
cealed it  from  the  spectators  until  it  was  drawn  on 
each  side  upon  a  rod,  there  were  other  curtains  at 
the  back  of  the  stage,  called  /rnrer^es,  whicli  served, 
when  drawn,  to  make  another  and  an  inner  apart- 
ment, when  such  was  required  by  the  business  of 
the  play.     They  had  tliis  name  at  a  very  early  date." 
The  German  commentators  upon   Shakspere  have 
bestowed  much  attention  upon  this  subject.    Ulrici 
says,  "  In   the  midst  of   the   stage,    not   far   from 
the  proscenium,  was  erected  a  sort  of  balcony  or 
platform,    supported    by   two    pillars    which     stood 
upon  some  broad  steps.     These  steps  led  up  to  an 
interior    and  smaller   stage,  which,  formed  by  the 
space  tinder  the  platform   and  betwixt  the  pillars, 
was  applied   to   the    most   varied   uses."      Tieck, 
in  his  notes  upon  Lear  has  shown,   we  think  very 
satisfactorily,    that    the    horrid    action    of  tearing 
out  Gloster's  eyes  did  not  take  place  on  the  stage 
proper.     He  says,  "The  chair  in  which  Gloster  is 
bound  is  the  same  which  stood  somewhat  elevated 
in  the  middle  of  the  scene,  and  is  the  same  from 
which  he  has  delivered  his  first  speech.     This  little 
theatre  in  the  midst  was,  when  not  in   use,    con- 
cealed by  a  curtain ;  when  in  use,  the  curtain  was 
withdrawn.     Shakspere,  therefore,  like  all  the  dra- 
matists  of  his  age,  has  frequently  two   scenes  at 
one  and  the  same  time.     In  Henry  VIII.  the  nobles 
stand   in   the   ante-chamber ;     the   curtain   of  the 
smaller  stage  is  withdrawn,  and  we  are  in  the  cham- 
ber of  the  king.    Again,  while  Cranmer  waits  in  the 
ante-chamber,  the    curtains   open  to   the   council- 
chamber.     We  have  here  this  advantage,  that   by 
the  pillars  which  divided  the  little  central  theatre 
from   the  proscenium,  or  proper  stage,  not    only 
could  a  double  group  be  presented,  but  it  could  be 
partially  concealed ;    and  thus  two  scenes  might  be 
plajred,  which  could  be  wholly  comprehended,  al- 
though not  everything  in  the  smaller  frame  was  ex- 
pressly and   evidently   seen."      It   appears   to  us 
not  very  material  to  determine  whether  Ulrici  is 
right  about  the  "  broad  steps."     Certainly  the  ele- 
vation of  the  "little  central  theatre"  was  not  consi- 
derable—  it  was   "somewhat  elevated,"  as   Tieck 
observes.    Now,  let  us  apply  this  principle  to  the 
scene  before  us;  and  we  doubt  not  that  we  shall 
.".22 


get  rid  of  some  anomalies  which  are  presented  to 
us  in  the  modern  representations.  Enter  Othello, 
to  tlie  proper  stage  ;  Desdemona  in  her  bed  is  con- 
cealed from  the  audience  in  the  little  central  stage, 
whose  curtains  are  drawn.  After  Othello  has 
said,  "  I'll  smell  thee  on  the  tree,"  he  ascends  the 
little  elevated  stage,  and  undraws  its  curtain.  The 
dialogue  between  him  and  Desdemona  then  takes 
place.  After  the  murder  he  remains  upon  the  cen- 
tral stage,  while  Emilia  is  knocking  at  the  door; 
and  after 

"  Soft,  by  and  by  : — let  me  the  curtains  draw," 
he  steps  down.  The  dialogue  between  Emilia  and 
Othello  at  first  goes  on  without  any  apparent  con- 
sciousness on  the  part  of  Emilia  of  Desdemona's 
presence.  When  Desdemona  has  spoken  Emilia 
withdraws  the  curtain  of  the  secondary  stage.  When 
Montano,  Gratiano,  and  lago  enter,  a  long  dialogue 
takes  place  between  lago  and  Emilia,  without  Mon- 
tano and  Gratiano  perceiving  "what  is  the  matter." 
Had  Desdemona  been  upon  the  stage  proper,  there 
would  have  been  no  time  for  this  dialogue.  Her 
murder  would  have  been  at  once  discovered.  The 
actors  now  get  over  the  difficulty  by  having  a  four- 
post  bedstead,  with  curtains  closely  drawn.  When, 
however,  Emilia  ascends  the  central  stage,  and 
exclaims, 

"  My  mistress  here  lies  murdei'd  in  her  bed," 
a  double  group  is  presented.  Emilia  is  in  the  cham- 
ber with  Desdemona ;  Othello  and  the  others  remain 
on  the  stage  proper  ;  Montano  then  follows  lago  out, 
who  has  previously  rushed  to  the  central  stage,  and 
stabbed  his  wife.  Gratiano  remains  upon  the  proper 
stage ;  but  why  then  does  Montano  order  Gratiano 
to  guard  the  door  without?  Othello  has  entered 
into  the  secondary  stage,  and  he  speaks  from  within 
the  curtain  to  Gratiano, — 

"  I  have  anotlier  weapon  in  tliis  chamber. 
It  is  a  sword  of  Spain,  tho  ice-brook's  temper  ; — 
O,  here  it  is: — Uncle,  I  must  come  forth." 
Gratiano,  still  remaining  upon  the  proper  stage,  an- 
swers, "  If  thou  attempt  it,  it  will  cost  thee  dear." 
But  when  Othello  says,  "  Look  in  upon  me  then," 
the  curtain  is  withdrawn,  and  Gratiano  ascends  to 
the  secondary  stage.  It  is  the  practice  of  the  mo- 
dern theatres  to  get  over  the  difficulty  by  making 
Gratiano  go  out  with  Montano,  contrary  to  the  ori- 
ginal text ;  and  to  make  him  enter  again  when 
Othello  says,  "Look  in  upon  me."  But  how  then 
shall  we  account  for  the  speech  of  Lodovico,  when 
he  subsequently  enters, — "  Where  is  this  rash  and 
most  unfortunate  man?"  without  the  secondary 
stage?  From  that  stage  Othello  answers,  "That's 
he  that  was  Othello ;  here  I  am."  The  subsequent 
events  take  place  upon  the  stage  proper  ;  although 
it  was  probably  contrived  that  Othello  should  kill 
himself  on  the  secondary  stage.  Those  who  com- 
plain, with  Voltaire,  of  an  exhibition  where  a  wo- 
man is  strangled  upon  the  stage,  may  be  relieved  by 
finding  that  in  the  ancient  theatre  "  two  scenes 
might  be  played  which  could  be  wholly  compre- 
liendcd,  although  not  everything  in  the  smaller 
frame  was  expressly  and  evidently  seen." 


[Famagusta,  from  a  lecent  Sketch.] 


SUPPLEMENTARY     NOTICE. 


When  Shakspere  first  became  acquainted  with  the  '  Moor  of  Venice'  of  Giraldi  Cinthio  (whether 
in  the  original  ItaUan,  or  the  French  translation,  or  in  one  of  the  little  story-books  that  familiarized 
the  people  with  the  romance  and  the  poetry  of  the  south),  he  saw  in  that  novel  the  scuff oldimj  of 
Othello.  There  was  formerly  in  Venice  a  valiant  Moor,  says  the  story.  It  came  to  pass  that 
a  virtuous  lady  of  wonderful  beauty,  named  Desdemona,  became  enamoured  of  his  great  qualities 
and  noble  virtues.  The  Moor  loved  her  in  return,  and  they  were  married  in  spite  of  the  opposition 
of  the  lady's  friends.  It  happened  too  (says  the  story),  that  the  senate  of  Venice  appointed  the 
Moor  to  the  command  of  Cyprus,  and  that  his  lady  determined  to  accompany  him  thither.  Amongst 
the  officers  who  attended  upon  the  General  was  an  ensign,  of  the  most  agreeable  person,  but  of  the 
most  depraved  natm^e.  The  wife  of  this  man  was  the  friend  of  Desdemona,  and  they  spent  much 
of  their  time  together.  The  wicked  ensign  became  violently  enamoured  of  Desdemona  ;  but  she, 
whose  thoughts  were  wholly  engrossed  by  the  Moor,  was  utterly  regardless  of  the  ensign's  atten- 
tions. His  love  then  became  terrible  hate,  and  he  resolved  to  accuse  Desdemona  to  her  husband 
of  infidelity,  and  to  connect  with  the  accusation  a  captain  of  Cyprus.  That  officer,  having  struck 
a  centinel,  was  discharged  from  his  command  by  the  Moor ;  and  Desdemona,  interested  in  his 
favour,  endeavoured  to  reinstate  him  in  her  husband's  good  opinion.  The  Moor  said  one  day  to 
the  ensign,  that  his  wife  was  so  importunate  for  the  restoration  of  the  officer,  that  he  must  take  him 
back.  '  If  you  would  open  your  eyes,  you  would  see  plainer,'  said  the  ensign.  The  romance- 
writer  continues  to  display  the  perfidious  intrigues  of  the  ensign  against  Desdemona.  He  steals  a 
handkerchief  which  the  Moor  had  given  her,  employing  the  agency  of  his  own  child.  He  contrives 
with  the  Moor  to  murder  the  captain  of  Cyprus,  after  he  has  made  the  credidous  husband  listen  to 
a  conversation  to  which  he  gives  a  false  colour  and  direction  ;  and,  finally,  the  Moor  and  the  guilty 
officer  destroy  Desdemona  together,  under  circumstances  of  great  brutality.  The  crime  is,  however, 
concealed,  and  the  Moor  is  finally  betrayed  by  his  accomplice. 

Mr.  Dunlop,  in  his  '  History  of  Fiction,'  has  pointed  out  the  material  differences  between  the 
novel  and  the  tragedy.  He  adds,  "  In  all  these  important  variations,  Shakspere  has  improved 
on  his  original.  In  a  few  other  particulars  he  has  deviated  from  it  with  less  judgment ;  in  most 
respects  he  has  adhered  with  close  imitation.  The  characters  of  lago,  Desdemona,  and  Cassio,  are 
taken  from  Cinthio  with  scarcely  a  shade  of  difterence.  The* obscure  hints  and  various  artifices  of 
the  villain  to  raise  suspicion  in  the  Moor  are  the  same  in  the  novel  and  the  drama."     M.  Guizot, 

,•523 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

with  the  eye  of  real  criticism,  has  seen  somewhat  further  than  Mr.  Dunlop.  "  There  was  wanting 
in  the  narrative  of  Cinthio  the  poetical  genius  which  furnished  the  actors — which  created  the  indi- 
viduals— which  imposed  upon  each  a  figure  and  a  character — which  made  us  see  their  actions,  and 
listen  to  their  words — which  presented  their  thoughts  and  penetrated  their  sentiments  : — that  vivi- 
fying power  which  summons  events  to  arise,  to  progress,, to  expand,  to  be  completed: — that  crea- 
tive breath  which,  breathing  over  the  past,  calls  it  again  into  being,  and  fills  it  with  a  present  and 
imperishable  life  : — this  was  the  power  which  Shakspere  alone  possessed,  and  by  which,  out  of  a 
forgotten  novel,  he  has  made  Othello." 

Before  we  can  be  said  to  understand  the  idea  of  Shakspere  in  the  composition  of  Othello,  we 
must  disabuse  ourselves  of  some  of  the  commonplace  principles  upon  which  he  has  been  intrepreted. 
It  is  with  this  object  that  we  have  here,  instead  of  in  our  Introductory  Notice,  given  a  rapid  sketch 
of  the  source  from  which  he  derived  this  tragedy.  The  novel,  be  it  observed,  is  a  very  intelligible 
and  consistent  story,  of  wedded  happiness,  of  unlawful  and  unrequited  attachment,  of  revenge 
growing  out  of  disappointment,  of  jealousy  too  easily  abused,  of  confederacy  with  the  abuser,  of 
most  brutal  and  guilty  violence,  of  equally  base  falsehood  and  concealment.  This  is  a  story  in 
which  we  see  nothing  out  of  the  common  course  of  wickedness ;  nothing  which  licentious  craft 
might  not  prompt,  and  frenzied  passion  adopt.  The  lago  of  the  tragedy,  it  is  said,  has  not  suflfi- 
cient  motives  for  his  crimes.  Mr.  Skottowe  tells  us  that  in  the  novel,  except  as  a  means  of  ven- 
geance on  Desdemona,  the  infliction  of  pain  upon  the  Moor  forms  no  part  of  the  treacherous 
officer's  design.  But,  with  regard  to  the  play,  he  informs  us,  that  it  is  surely  straining  the  matter 
beyond  the  limits  of  probability  to  attribute  lago's  detestation  of  Othello  to  causes  so  inadequate 
and  vague  as  the  dramatist  has  assigned.*  We  have  here  the  two  principles  upon  which  the 
novelist  and  the  dramatist  worked  thoroughly  at  issue  ;  and  the  one  is  to  be  called  natural  and  the 
other  unnatural.  The  one  would  have  produced  such  an  Othello  as  is  cleverly  described  in  the  in- 
troduction to  a  French  translation  of  the  play  recently  published  :f  in  which  the  nature  of  jealousy 
and  all  its  cruel  effects  would  have  been  explained,  with  great  pomp  of  language,  by  a  confidante  in 
an  introductory  monologue  ;  and  the  same  subject  would  have  served  for  a  continued  theme,  until 
the  fatal  conclusion,  which  was  long  foreseen,  of  an  amiable  wife  becoming  the  victim  of  a  cruel 
oppressor.  This  is  the  Zaire  of  Voltaire.  Upon  the  other  principle,  we  have  no  explanations,  no 
regular  progress  of  what  is  most  palpable  in  human  action.  We  have  the  "  motiveless  malignity" 
of  lago, — "  a  being  next  to  devil,  and  only  not  quite  devil,  and  yet  a  character  which  Shakspeare 
has  attempted  and  execiited  without  scandal,"  J  as  the  main  spring  of  all  the  fearful  events  which 
issue  out  of  the  unequal  contest  between  the  powers  of  grossness  and  purity,  of  falsehood  and 
truth.     This  is  the  Othello  of  Shakspere. 

If  it  had  been  within  the  compass  of  Shakspere's  great  scheme  of  the  exposition  of  himian  ac- 
tions and  the  springs  of  action,  to  have  made  lago  a  supernatural  incarnation  of  the  principle  of 
evil,  he  woidd  not  have  drawn  him  very  differently  from  what  he  is.  In  all  essentials  he  is  "  only 
not  quite  devil."  He  is  very  much  less  "than  archangel  ruined."  Milton,  when  he  paints  his 
Satan  as  about  to  plunge  our  first  parents  in  irretrievable  misery,  makes  him  exhibit  "  signs  of 
remorse  :" — 

Should  I  at  your  harmless  innocence 


Melt,  as  I  do,  yet  public  reason  just. 
Honour  and  empire  with  revenge  enlarg'd. 
By  conquering  this  new  world,  compels  me  now 
To  do  what  else,  though  daran'd,  I  should  abhor. 
So  spake  the  Fiend,  and  with  necessity. 
The  tyrant's  plea,  excus'd  his  devilish  deeds." 


When  lago  beholds  a  picture  of  happiness,  not  much  inferior  to  that  upon  which  the  Satan  of 
Milton  looked,  he  has  no  compunctious  visitings  at  the  prospect  of  destroying  it : — 


"  O,  you  are  well  tun'd  now  I 


But  I'll  set  down  the  pegs  that  make  this  music, 
As  honest  as  I  am." 


But  there  is  another  great  poetical  creation  to  which  lago  bears  more  resemblance — the  Mepliis- 

•  The  Life  of  Shakspeare.     By  Augustine  Skottowe.     Vol.  ii.  p   76. 
t  Chefs-d'CEuvre  de  Shakspeare.    Tome  ii.    Paris,  1839.  J  Coleridge. 

824 


OTHELLO. 

tophiles  of  Goethe.  Take  away  the  supernatural  power  in  Mephistophiles,  and  the  sense  of  the 
supernatural  power  m  Faust,  and  the  actions  of  the  human  fiend  and  of  the  real  fiend  are  reduced 
to  pretty  much  the  same  standard.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  Goethe,  to  make  the  incarnation 
of  the  evil  principle  intelligible  in  its  dealing  with  human  affairs,  could  only  paint  what  Shakspere 
has  painted — a  being  passionless,  self-possessed,  unsympathising,  sceptical  of  all  truth  and  purity, 
intellectually  gross  and  sensual, — of  a  will  uncontrolled  by  fear  for  himself  or  respect  for  others, — ■ 
the  abstract  of  the  reasoning  power  in  the  highest  state  of  activity,  but  without  love,  without  ve- 
neration, without  hope,  unspiritualized,  earthy.  Mephistophiles  and  lago  have  this  in  common, 
also,  that  they  each  seek  to  destroy  their  victims  through  their  affections,  and  each  is  successful  in 
the  attempt.  If  Shakspere  had  made  lago  actually  exhibit  the  vulgar  attributes  of  the  fiend, 
when  Othello  exclaims — 

"  I  look  down  toWiircU  his  feet" — 

would  the  character  have  been  a  particle  more  real  ?  Fiends  painted  by  men  are  but  reflections  of 
the  baser  principles  of  humanity.  Shakspere  embodied  those  principles  in  lago ;  and,  it  being 
granted  that  great  talent  combined  with  an  utter  destitution  of  principle,  and  a  complete  denuda- 
tion of  sympathy,  has  produced  the  monsters  which  history  has  described,  who  shall  say  that  the 
character  is  exaggerated? 

The  list  of  "  persons  represented,"  affixed  to  the  folio  edition  of  Othello,  and  called  "  the  names 
of  the  actors,"  is  as  little  wanted  for  the  information  of  the  reader  of  this  tragedy,  as  any  prepara- 
tory scenic  description  of  the  characters.  In  this  list  we  have  "  lago,  a  villain," — "  Roderigo,  a 
gull'd  gentleman."  But  Shakspere  has  given  us  very  clear  indications  by  which  to  know  the  gull 
from  the  rogue.  We  have  not  read  a  dozen  sentences  before  we  feel  the  intellectual  vigour  of  lago, 
and  the  utter  want  of  honour,  which  he  is  not  ashamed  to  avow.  He  parries  in  an  instant  the  com- 
plaint of  Roderigo, — 

"  That  thou,  lago,  who  hast  had  ray  purse," — 

and  commands  a  sympathy  with  his  own  complaints  against  the  Moor.  He  is  not  nice  in  the 
avowal  of  his  principles  of  action  : — 

"  In  following  him,  I  follow  but  myself." 

He  lays  bare,  without  the  slightest  apprehension,  the  selfish  motives  upon  which  he  habitually  acts. 
And  is  not  this  natm-e  ?  Roderigo,  blinded  by  his  passion  and  vanity,  overlooks,  as  all  men  do 
under  similar  circiunstances,  the  risk  which  he  himself  runs  from  such  a  confederate  ;  and  lago 
knows  that  he  will  overlook  it.  He  never  makes  a  similar  exposition  of  himself  directly  to  persons 
-of  nice  honour  and  sensitive  morality.     To  Othello  he  is  the  hypocrite : — 

"  I  lack  iniquity. 

Sometimes  to  do  me  service." 

And  therefore,  in  Othello's  opinion, 

"  A.  man  he  is  of  honesty  and  trust." 
And  even  to  the  "  gull'd  gentleman,"  while  he  is  counselling  the  most  abominable  wickedness,  he 
is  a  sort  of  moralist,  up  to  the  point  of  securing  attention  and  belief: — "  our  bodies  are  our  gar- 
dens."    When  he  is  alone  he  revels  in  the  pride  of  his  intellect : — 

"  Thus  do  I  ever  make  my  fool  my  purse : 

For  I  mine  own  gained  knowledge  should  profane. 
If  I  would  time  expend  with  such  a  snipe. 
But  for  my  sport  and  profit." 

To  Desdemona,  in  the  first  scene  at  Cyprus,  he  is  "  nothing  if  not  critical,"  according  to  his  own 
account;  but  retailing  "  old  fond  paradoxes,"  to  conceal  his  real  opinions.  When  he  tasks  his 
understanding  to  meet  Desdemona's  demand  of,  "  What  praise  could'st  thou  bestow  on  a  deserving 
woman  indeed?"  he  exhibits  the  very  perfection  of  satirical  verse, — the  precise  model  of  what  used 
to  be  called  poetry, — the  light  without  warmth  of  cleverness  without  feeling.  To  Cassio,  a  frank 
and  generous  soldier-,  somewhat  easily  tempted  to  folly,  and  with  morals  just  loose  enough  not  to 
destroy  his  native  love  of  truth  and  purity,  he  ventures  to  exhibit  himself  more  openly.  The  dia- 
logue in  the  third  scene  of  the  second  act,  where  they  discourse  of  Desdemona  is  a  key  to  the 
habitual  grossness  of  his  imagination.  His  sarcasm  to  Cassio  after  the  anger  of  Othello,  "  As  I  am 
an  honest  man,  I  thought  you  had  received  some  bodily  wound ;  there  is  more  sense  in  that  than 
in  reputation," — discloses  the  utter  absence  from  his  mind  of  the  principle  of  honour.  And  then, 
again,  he  can  accommodate  himself  to  all  the  demands  of  the  frankest  joviality  : — 

"  And  let  mc  the  cannakin,  clink  ,  clink." 
Traqediks.— Vol.  I.        2  T  *  325 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

Other  dramatists  would  have  made  him  gloomy  and  morose,  but  Shakspere  knew  that  the  boon 
companion,  and  the  cheat  and  traitor,  are  not  essentially  distinct  characters.  In  these  lighter  de- 
monstrations of  his  real  nature  we  have  seen  the  clever  scoimdrel  and  the  passionless  sensualist 
tainted  with  impurity  to  the  extremest  depth  of  his  will  and  his  understanding.  We  have  seen, 
too,  at  the  very  commencement  of  the  play,  his  hatred  to  Othello  exhibited  in  the  rousing  up  of 
Desdemona's  father.  We  have  learned  something,  also,  of  the  motive  of  this  hatred — the  prefer- 
ment of  Cassio  : — • 

"  Now,  sir,  be  judge  yourself. 

Whether  I  in  any  just  term  am  affin'd 
To  love  the  Moor." 

But  it  remained  for  lago  himself,  thinking  aloud,  or,  as  we  call  it,  soliloquizing,  to  disclose  the  en- 
tire scope  of  his  villainy.  He  is  to  get  Cassio's  place,  and  "to  abuse  Othello's  ear."  To  justify 
even  to  himself  this  second  fiendish  determination,  he  shows  us,  as  Coleridge  has  beautifully  ex- 
pressed it,  "The  motive  hunting  of  a  motiveless  malignity."  We  may  well  add  with  Coleridge, 
"  how  awful  it  is!"  To  understand  the  confidence  with  which  lago  exclaims,  "I  have  it,  it  is 
engendered,"  we  must  examine  the  elements  of  Othello's  character. 

lago  paints  the  Moor  with  bitter  satire,  as  one  "  loving  his  own  pride  and  purposes."  He  exhi- 
bits him  lofty  and  magniloquent,  using  "  a  bombast  circumstance."  This  is  the  mode  in  which  a 
cold,  calculating  man  of  the  world  looks  upon  the  imaginative  man.  The  practical  men,  as  they 
are  called,  regard  with  dislike  those  who  habitually  bring  high  thoughts  and  forcible  expressions 
into  the  commerce  of  life.     And  yet  lago  is  compelled  to  do  justice  to  the  Moor's  high  talent : — 

"  Another  of  his  fathom  they  have  none. 
To  lead  their  business." 

The  frankness  and  generosity  of  the  Moor,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  subject  for  his  utter  scorn.  Here 
he  has  no  sympathy  with  him  : — • 

"  The  Moor  is  of  a  free  and  open  nature. 
That  thinks  men  honest  th.at  but  seem  to  be  so. 
And  will  as  tenderly  be  led  by  the  nose  , 

As  asses  are." 

Again, — 

"  The  Moor — howbeit  that  I  endure  him  not — 
Is  of  a  constant,  loving,  noble  nature." 

It  is  his  dependence  upon  this  constant,  loving,  noble  nature, — it  is  upon  Othello's  freedom  from 

all  low  suspicion,  that  lago  relies  for  his  power  to 

"  Make  the  Moor  thank  me,  love  me,  and  reward  me, 
For  making  him  egregiously  an  ass ; 
And  practising  upon  his  peace  and  quiet. 
Even  to  madness." 

But  let  Othello  speak  for  himself.  Not  vain,  but  proud  ; — but  relying  upon  himself,  his  birth,  his 
actions,  he  is  calm  at  the  prospect  of  any  injury  that  Brabantio  can  do  him.  He  is  bold  when 
he  has  to  confront  those  who  come  as  his  enemies : — 

"  I  must  be  found ; 

My  parts,  my  title,  and  my  perfect  soul. 
Shall  manifest  me  rightly." 

When  the  old  senator  exclaims,  "  down  with  him — thief!  "  how  beautiful  is  his  self-command  ! — 

"  Keep  up  your  bright  swords,  for  the  dew  will  rust  them." 
It  was  this  forbearance  and  self-restraint,  bottomed  vipon  the  most  enthusiastic  energy,  that  made 
him  a  hero.  When  he  is  wi'ought  into  frenzy,  lago  himself  is  surprised  at  the  storm  which  he  has 
produced  ;  and  he  looks  upon  the  tempest  of  passion  as  a  child  does  upon  some  machine  which  he 
has  mischievously  set  in  motion  for  damage  and  destruction,  but  which  under  guidance  is  a  beau- 
tiful instrument  of  usefulness.  "  Can  he  be  angry  ?  "  Lodovico,  in  the  same  way,  does  justice  to 
his  habitual  equanimity  : — 

"  Is  this  the  noble  Moor  whom  our  full  senate 
Call  all-in-all  sufficient?     This  the  nature 
Whom  passion  could  not  shake?" 

The  senate  scene  is  the  triumph  of  Othello's  perfect  simplicity  and  fearless  enthusiasm  : — 

"  I  think  this  tale  would  win  my  daughter  too." 

And  then  his  affection  for  Desdemona.     Before  the  assembled  senators  he  puts  on  no  show  of  vio- 
lence— no  reality,  and,  unquestionably,  no  affectation,  of  warmth  and  tenderness  : — 
326 


OTHELLO. 

"  She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  pass'd, 
And  I  lov'd  her  that  she  did  pity  them." 

But  Avhen  the  meeting  comes  at  Cyprus,  after  their  separation  and  their  danger,  the  depth  of  his 
affection  bursts  forth  in  irrepressible  words  : — 

"  If  it  were  now  to  die, 

'T  were  now  to  be  most  happy,  for  I  fear 

My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute,  / 

Tliat  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 

Succeeds  in  unknown  fate." 

Such  are  the  materials  upon  which  lago  has  to  work  in  Othello.     But  had  Desdemona  been  other- 
wise than  she  was,  his  success  would  not  have  been  so  assm-ed.     Let  us  dwell  for  a  moment  upon 
the  elementary  character  of  this  pure  and  gentle  being. 
Desdemona's  father  first  describes  her  : — 

"  A  maiden  never  bold ; 

Of  spirit  so  still  and  quiet  that  her  motion 
Blush'd  at  herself." 

Yet  upon  her  very  first  appearance  she  does  not  shrink  from  avowing  the  strength  of  her  affec- 
tions :^ 

"  That  I  love  the  Moor,  to  live  with  him. 

My  downright  violence  and  storm  of  fortunes 
May  trumpet  to  the  world." 

But  she  immediately  adds  the  reason  for  this  : — 

"  My  henii  's  subdued 

Even  to  the  very  quality  nf  my  lord." 

The  impressibility  of  Desdemona  is  her  distinguishing  characteristic.  With  this  key,  the  tale  of 
Othello's  wooing  is  a  most  consistent  one.  The  timid  girl  is  brought  into  immediate  contact  with 
the  earnest  warrior.  She  hears  of  wonders  most  remote  from  her  experience  ; — caves  and  deserts, 
rocks  and  hills,  in  themselves  marvels  to  an  inhabitant  of  the  city  of  the  sea, — 

■  "  Of  most  disastrous  chances, 

Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field." 

How  exquisite  is  the  domestic  picture  which  follows : — 

"  But  still  the  house  affairs  would  draw  her  thence : 
Vi^hich  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch. 
She  *d  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse." 

But  this  impressibility,  this  exceeding  sympathy  arising  out  of  the  tenderness  of  her  nature,  is 
under  the  control  of  the  most  perfect  purity.  lago  does  full  justice  to  this  purity,  whilst  he  sees 
that  her  kindness  of  heart  may  be  abused  : — 

"  For 'tis  most  easy 

The  inclining  Desdemona  to  subdue 

In  any  honest  suit;  she  is  fram'd  as  fruitful 

As  the  free  elements." 

Her  confidence  in  the  power  which  she  possesses  over  Othello  is  the  result  of  the  perfect  sympathy 
which  she  has  bestowed  and  received.  And  her  zeal  in  friendship,  without  a  thought  that  she 
might  be  mistaken,  has  its  root  in  the  same  confiding  nature  : — 

' '  I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place ;  assure  thee. 

If  I  do  vow  a  friendship  I'll  perform  it 

To  the  last  article." 

The  equivocation  about  the  handkerchief  is  the  result  of  the  same  impressibility.  She  is  terrified 
out  of  her  habitual  candour.  The  song  of  "  Willow,"  and  the  subsequent  dialogue  with  Emilia,  are 
evidences  of  the  same  subjection  of  the  mind  to  external  impressions.  But  her  unassailable  purity 
is  above  all.  "  I  do  not  think  there  is  any  such  woman  "  is  one  of  those  minute  touches  which  we 
in  vain  seek  for  in  any  other  writer  but  Shakspere. 

Understanding,  then,  the  native  characters  of  Othello  and  Desdemona,  we  shall  appreciate  the 
marvellous  skill  with  which  Shakspere  has  conducted  the  machinations  of  lago.  If  the  novel  of 
Cinthio  had  fallen  into  common  hands  to  be  dramatized,  and  the  dramatist  had  chosen  to  depart 
from  the  motive  of  revenge  against  Desdemona  which  there  actuates  the  villain,  the  plot  would  pro- 
bably have  taken  this  course  : — The  Desdemona  would  have  been  somewhat  less  pure  than  our 
Desdemona  ;  the  Cassio  would  have  been  somewhat  more  presumptuous  than  our  Cassio,  and  have 
not  felt  for  Desdemona  the  religious   veneration  which  he  feels ;  the  Othello  would  have  been 

327 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

"  easily  jealous,"  and  would  have  done  something  "in  hate,"  but  not  "  all  in  honour,"  as  oui- 
Othello.  It  is  a  part  of  tlie  admirable  knowledge  of  human  nature  possessed  by  Shakspere,  that 
lago  does  not,  even  for  a  moment,  entertain  the  thought  of  tampering  witli  the  virtue  of  Desde- 
niona,  either  through  Cassio,  or  Roderigo,  or  any  other  instrument.  Coleridge  has  boldly  and 
truly  said  that  "  Othello  does  not  kill  Desdemona  in  jealousy,  but  in  a  conviction  forced  upon  him 
by  the  almost  superhuman  art  of  lago — such  a  conviction  as  any  man  would  and  must  have  en- 
tertained who  had  believed  lago's  honesty  as  Othello  did.  We,  the  audience,  know  that  lago  is  a 
villain  from  the  beginning ;  but,  in  considering  the  essence  of  the  Shaksperian  Othello,  we  must 
perseveringly  place  ourselves  in  his  situation,  and  under  hiscircmnstances." 

But  Othello  was  not  only  beti'ayed  by  his  reliance  on  "  lago's  honesty,"  but  also  by  his  confi- 
dence in  lago's  wisdom  : — 

"  This  fellow  's  of  exceeding  honesty. 

And  knows  all  qualities,  with  a  learned  spirit. 

Of  human  dealings." 

Again, 

"  O  thou  art  wise;  'tis  certain." 
When  Othello  thus  bows  his  own  lofty  nature  before  the  grovelling  but  most  acute  worldly  intel- 
lect of  lago,  his  habitual  view  of  "  all  qualities"  had  been  clouded  by  the  breath  of  the  slanderer. 
His  confidence  in  purity  and  innocence  had  been  destroyed.  The  sensual  judgment  of  "  human 
dealings"  had  taken  the  place  of  the  spiritual.  The  enthusiastic  love  and  veneration  of  his  wife 
had  been  painted  to  him  as  the  result  of  gi'oss  passion  : — 

"  Not  to  affect  many  proposed  matches,"  &c. 
His  belief  in  the  general  prevalence  of  virtuous  motives  and  actions  had  been  degraded  to  a  reli- 
ance on  the  libertine's  creed  that  all  are  impure  : — 

"  there's  millions  now  alive,"  &c. 

When  the  innocent  and  the  high-minded  submit  themselves  to  the  tutelage  of  the  man  of  the 
world,  as  he  is  called,  the  process  of  mental  change  is  precisely  that  produced  in  the  mind  of 
Othello.     The  poetry  of  life  is  gone.     On  them,  never  more 

"  The  freshness  of  the  heart  can  fall  like  dew." 
They  abandon  themselves  to  the  betrayer,  and  they  prostrate  themselves  before  the  energy  of  his 
"  gain'd  knowledge."  They  feel  that  in  their  own  original  powers  of  judgment  they  have  no 
support  against  the  dogmatism,  and  it  may  be  the  ridicule,  of  experience.  This  is  the  course  with 
the  young  when  they  fall  into  the  power  of  the  tempter.  But  was  not  Othello  in  all  essentials 
young?  Was  he  not  of  an  enthusiastic  temperament,  confiding,  loving, — most  sensitive  to  opinion, 
— jealous  of  his  honour, — truly  wise,  had  he  trusted  to  his  own  pure  impulses? — But  he  was  most 
weak,  in  adopting  an  evil  opinion  against  his  own  faith,  and  conviction,  and  proof  in  his  reliance 
upon  the  honesty  and  judgment  of  a  man  whom  he  really  doubted  and  had  never  proved.  Yet  this 
is  the  course  by  which  the  highest  and  noblest  intellects  are  too  often  subjected  to  the  dominion  of 
the  subtle  understanding  and  the  unbridled  will.  It  is  an  unequal  contest  between  the  principles 
that  are  struggling  for  the  mastery  in  the  individual  man,  when  the  attributes  of  the  serpent  and 
the  dove  are  separated,  and  become  conflicting.  The  wisdom  which  belonged  to  Othello's  enthu- 
siastic temperament  was  his  confidence  in  the  ti-uth  and  purity  of  the  being  with  whom  his  life  was 
bound  up,  and  his  general  reliance  upon  the  better  part  of  human  natm-e,  in  his  judgment  of  his 
friend.  When  the  confidence  was  destroyed  by  the  craft  of  his  deadly  enemy,  his  sustaining 
power  was  also  destroyed ; — the  balance  of  his  sensitive  temperament  was  lost ; — his  enthusiasm 
became  wild  passion  ; — his  new  belief  in  the  dominion  of  grossness  over  the  apparently  pure  and 
good,  shaped  itself  into  gross  outrage  ;  his  honour  lent  itself  to  schemes  of  cruelty  and  revenge. 
But  even  amidst  the  whirlwind  of  this  passion,  we  every  now  and  then  hear  something  which 
sounds  as  the  softest  echo  of  love  and  gentleness.  Pei'haps  in  the  whole  compass  of  the  Shakspe- 
rian pathos  there  is  nothing  deeper  than  "  But  yet  the  pity  of  it,  lago!  O,  lago,  the  pity  of  it, 
lago."  It  is  the  contemplated  murder  of  Desdemona  which  thus  tears  his  heart.  But  his  *'  disor- 
dered power,  engendered  within  itself  to  its  own  destruction,"  hurries  on  the  catastrophe.  We 
would  ask,  with  Colei'idge,  "  As  the  curtain  drops,  which  do  we  pity  the  most?" 


328 


[Atlieoian  Coin.] 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,  and  Chronology,  of  Timon  of  Athens. 

'  The  Life  of  Tymon  of  Athens  '  was  first  published  in  the  folio  collection  of  1623  ;  and  imme- 
diately previous  to  that  publication,  it  was  entered  in  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  as  one 
of  the  plays  "not  formerly  entered  to  other  men."  The  text,  in  this  first  edition,  has  no  division 
into  acts  and  scenes.  We  have  reason  to  believe  that,  with  a  few  exceptions,  it  is  accurately 
printed  from  the  copy  which  was  in  the  possession  of  Heminge  and  Condell ;  and  we  have  judged 
it  important,  for  reasons  which  we  shall  feel  it  our  duty  to  state  in  considerable  detail,  to  follow 
that  copy  with  very  slight  variations. 

The  text  which  is  ordinarily  printed,  that  of  Steevens,  has  imdergone,  in  an  almost  unequalled 
extent,  what  the  editors  call  "regulation."  Steevens  was  a  great  master  in  this  art  of  "regu- 
lation"— a  process  by  which  what  was  originally  printed  as  prose  is  sometimes  transformed  into 
verse,  with  the  aid  of  transposition,  omission,  and  substitution ;  and  what,  on  the  contrary,  stood 
in  the  original  as  verse,  is  changed  into  prose,  because  the  ingenuity  of  the  editor  has  been  unable 
to  render  it  strictly  metrical.  There  are  various  other  modes  of  "  regulation,"  which  have  been 
most  extensively  employed  in  the  play  before  us  ;  and  the  consequence  is  that  some  very  important 
characteristics  have  been  utterly  destroyed  in  the  modern  copies — the  record  has  been  obliterated. 
The  task,  however,  which  Steevens  undertook,  was  in  some  cases  too  difficult  a  one  to  be  carried 
through  consistently ;  and  he  has  been  compelled,  therefore,  to  leave  several  passages,  that  invited 
his  ambition  to  "  regulate,"  even  as  he  found  them.  For  example,  in  that  part  of  the  first  scene 
where  Apemantus  appears,  we  have  a  dialogue,  of  which  Steevens  thus  speaks : — "  The  very 
imperfect  state  in  which  the  ancient  copy  of  this  play  has  reached  us,  leaves  a  doubt  whether 
several  short  speeches  in  the  present  scene  were  designed  for  verse  or  prose ;  I  have,  therefore, 
made  no  attempt  at  "regulation."  Boswell  upon  this  very  sensibly  asks,  "Why  should  not  the 
same  doubt  exist  with  regard  to  other  scenes,  in  which  Mr.  Steevens  has  not  acted  with  the  same 
moderation?"  It  will  be  necessary  that,  in  addition  to  the  notices  in  our  foot  notes,  we  should 
here  call  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  a  few  specimens  of  the  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
the  modern  text. 

The  original  presents  to  us  in  particular  scenes  a  very  considerable  number  of  short  lines, 
occurring  in  the  most  rapid  succession.     We  have  no  parallel  example  in  Shakspere  of  the  fre- 


TRAOEniES. — Vol.  I.        2  U  2 


331 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


quency  of  their  use.  The  hemistich  is  introduced  with  great  effect  in  some  of  the  finest  passages 
in  Lear.  But  in  Timon  of  Athens,  its  perpetual  recurrence  in  some  scenes  is  certainly  not  always 
a  beauty.  The  "  regulation,"  however,  has  not  only  concealed  this  peculiar  feature,  but  has  neces- 
sarily altered  the  structure  of  the  verses  preceding  or  following  the  hemistich.  We  print  a  few 
such  passages  in  parallel  columns  : — 

ANCIENT  COPIES.  MODEEN  COPIES. 


Act  I.  Scene  i. 
"  Tim.  What  trumpet 's  that  ? 

Mes.  'Tis  Alcibiades,  and  some  twenty  horse. 
All  of  companionship. 

Scene  ii. 
Ven.  Most  honoured  Timoi), 
Ithatli  plcas'd  ihe  gods  to  remember  my  father's  age. 
And  call  him  to  long  peace : 

Act  m.  Scene  iv. 
Stew.  Ay,  if  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waiting, 
'T  were  sure  enough. 

Wliy  then  preferr'd  you  not  your  sums  and  bills, 
Wlieu  your  false  masters  eat  of  my  lord's  meat? 
Then  they  could  smile,  and  fawn  upon  his  debts, 
And  take  down  th'  interest  into  their  glutt'uous  maws. 
You  do  yourselves  but  wrong,  to  stir  me  up  ; 
Let  me  pass  quietly. 

Act  IV.  Scene  hi. 
Tim.  Had  I  a  steward. 
So  true,  so  just,  and  now  so  comfortable  ? 
It  almost  turns  my  dangerous  nature  wild. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face :  Surely,  this  man 
Was  born  of  woman." 


Act  I.  Scene  i. 
"  Tim.  Wliat  trumpet's  that? 

Serv.  'Tis  Alcibiades,  and 

Some  twenty  horse,  all  of  companionship. 

Scene  ii. 
Ven.    Most  honour'd  Timon,  't  hath  pleas'd  the  gods 
remember 
My  father's  age,  and  call  him  to  long  peace. 

Act  III.  Scene  iv. 
Flnv.  Ay, 

If  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waiting, 
'Twere  sure  enough.     Wliy  then  prelerr'd  you  not 
Your  sums  and  bills,  when  your  false  masters  eat 
Of  my  lord's  meat  ?     Then  they  could  smile,  and  fawn 
Upon  his  debts,  and  take  down  th'  interest 
Into  their  gluttonous  maws.   You  do  yourselves  but  wrong. 
To  stir  me  up ;  let  me  pass  quietly : 

Act  IV.  Scene  hi. 
Tim.  Had  I  a  steward  so  true,  so  just,  and  now 
So  comfortable?     It  almost  turns 
My  dangerous  nature  wild.     Let  me  behold 
Thy  face. — Surely  this  man  was  born  of  woman." 


No  one  we  believe,  having  the  passages  thus  exhibited,  will  consider  that  Steevens  has  improved 
the  poet  by  his  "regulation."  But  even  if  there  should  be  differences  of  taste  in  this  particular 
with  reference  to  the  passages  before  us,  we  maintain  that  in  those  passages,  and  in  the  examples 
we  are  about  to  give,  the  integrity  of  the  text  ought  to  have  been  preserved  upon  a  principle. 

The  next  examples  which  we  shall  take  are  those  in  which  the  prose  of  the  original  has  been 
turned  into  verse  : — 


Act  i.  Scene  ii. 
"  Tim.  Now  Apemantus  if  thou  wert  not  sullen  I  would 
be  good  to  tliee. 

jiper.  No.  I'll  nothing;  for  if  I  .should  be  brib'd  too, 
there  would  be  none  left  to  rail  upon  thee,  and  then  thou 
wouldst  sin  the  faster.  Thou  giv'st  so  long,  Timon,  I  fear 
me  thou  wilt  give  away  thyself  in  paper  shortly. 

Act  II.  Scene  ir. 
Tim.  I  will  dispatch  you  severally. 
You  to  Lord  Lucius,  to  Lord  Lucullusyou.  I  hunted  with 
his  honour  to-day ;  you  to  Senipronius;  commend  me  to 
their  loves;  and  I  am  proud,  say,  tliat  my  occasions  have 
found  time  to  use  'em  toward  a  supply  of  money :  let  the 
request  be  fifty  talents. 


Act  TV.  Scene  hi. 

Ale.  Noble  Timon,  what  friendship  may  I  do  thee  ? 

Tim.  None,  but  to  maintain  my  opinion. 

Ale.  What  is  it,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Promise  me  friendship,  but  perform  none.  If  thou 
wilt  not  promise  the  Gods  plague  thee,  for  thou  art  a  man  : 
if  thou  dost  perform,  confouud  thee,  for  thou  art  a  man." 


Act  i.  Scene  ii. 
"  Tim.  Now  Apemantus,  if  thou  wert  not  sullen, 
I'd  be  good  to  thee. 

Aper.  No,  I'll  nothing  ;  for 

If  I  shotild  be  brib'd  too,  there  would  be  none  left. 
To  rail  upon  thee ;  and  thou  wouldst  sin  the  faster. 
Thou  giv'st  so  long,  Timon,  I  fear  me,  thou 
Wilt  give  away  thyself  in  paper  shortly. 

Act  II.  Scene  ii. 
Tim,  I  will  despatch  you  severally. — You  to  lord  Lu- 
cius,— 
To  lord  Lucullus  you ;  I  hunted  with  his 
Honour  to-day; — you,  to  Sempronius  ; 
Commend  me  to  their  loves ;  and,  I  am  proud,  say, 
Tliat  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use  them 
Toward  a  supply  of  money  :  let  the  request 
Be  fifty  talents. 

Act  IV.  Scene  hi. 

Ale.  Noble  Timon, 

What  friendship  may  I  do  thee  ? 

Tim.  None,  but  to 

Maintain  my  opinion. 

Ale.  ■What  is  it,  Timon  ? 

Tim.  Promise  me  frieudship,  but  perform  none  :  If 
Thou  w-ilt  not  promise,  the  Gods  plague  thee,  for 
Thou  art  a  man  !  if  thou  dost  perform,  confound  thee, 
For  thou  'rt  a  man  '" 


332 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 

The  third  and  last  series  of  examples  which  we  shall  furnish,  exhibits  the  metamorphosis  of  the 
verse  of  the  original  into  prose  :— 


Act  v.  Scene  i. 
"  Painter.  Good  as  the  best. 
Promising  is  the  very  air  o'  th'  time  ; 
It  oiieus  the  eyes  of  expectation. 
I'erlormauce  is  ever  the  duller  for  his  act, 
And,  but  ill  the  plainer  and  simpler  kind  of  people, 
The  dei'd  of  saying  is  quite  out  of  use. 
To  promise  is  most  courtly  and  fashionable; 
Perloimance  is  a  kind  of  will  and  testament 
Which  argues  a  great  sickness  in  his  judgement 
That  makes  it. 

Poet.  I  am  thinking 
What  I  shall  say  I  have  provided  for  him  : 
It  must  be  a  personating  of  himself: 
A  satire  against  the  softness  of  prosperity. 
With  a  discovery  of  the  infinite  flatteries 
That  follow  youth  and  opulency." 


Act  v.  Scene  i. 
"  Painter.  Good  as  the  best.  Promising  is  the  very  air  o' 
the  time;  it  opens  the  eyes  of  expectation:  performance  is 
ever  the  duller  lor  his  act;  and,  but  in  the  plainer  and  sim- 
pler kind  of  )ieople,  the  deed  of  saying  is  quite  out  of  use.  To 
promise  is  most  courtly  and  fashionable:  performance  is  a 
kind  of  will,  or  testament,  which  argues  a  great  sickness  in 
his  judgment  that  makes  it. 


Puet.  I  am  thinking  what  I  sh.all  say  I  have  provided  for 
him:  It  must  be  a  personating  of  himself :  a  satire  against 
the  softness  of  prosperity;  with  a  discovery  of  the  infinite 
flatteries  that  follow  youth  and  opulency." 


We  have  thus  prepared  the  reader,  who  is  familiar  with  the  ordinary  text,  not  to  rely  upon  it  as 
a  transcript  of  the  ancient  copies ;  and  we  shall  now  endeavour  to  show  that,  by  a  careful  exa- 
mination of  the  original,  we  may  arrive  at  some  conclusions  with  regard  to  this  drama  which 
have  been  hitherto  entirely  overlooked. 

The  disguises  of  the  ancient  text,  which  have  been  so  long  accepted  without  hesitation,  have 
given  to  the  Timon  of  Athens  something  of  the  semblance  of  uniformity  in  the  structiu-e  of  the 
verse ;  although  in  reality  the  successive  scenes,  even  in  the  modern  text,  present  the  most  startling 
contrarieties  to  the  ear  which  is  accustomed  to  the  versification  of  Shakspere.  The  ordinary  ex- 
planation of  this  very  striking  characteristic  is,  that  the  ancient  text  is  corrupt.  This  is  the  belief 
of  the  English  editors.  Another  theory,  which  has  been  received  in  Germany,  is,  that  the  Timon 
being  one  of  the  latest  of  Shakspere's  pei'formances  has  come  down  to  us  unfinished.  The  con- 
viction to  which  we  have  ourselves  arrived  neither  rests  upon  the  probable  corruption  of  the  text, 
nor  the  possibility  that  the  poet  has  left  us  only  an  unfinished  draft  of  his  performance  ;  but  upon  the 
belief  that  the  differences  of  style,  as  well  as  the  more  important  differences  in  the  cast  of  thought, 
which  prevail  in  the  successive  scenes  of  this  drama,  are  so  remarkable  as  to  j  ustify  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  not  wholly  the  work  of  Shakspere.  We  think  it  will  not  be  very  difiicult  so  to  exhibit 
these  differences  in  detail,  as  to  warrant  us  in  requesting  the  reader's  acquiescence  in  the  principle 
which  we  seek  to  establish,  namely,  that  the  Timon  of  Athens  was  a  play  originally  produced  by 
an  artist  very  inferior  to  Shakspere,  and  which  probably  retained  possession  of  the  stage  for  some 
time  in  its  first  form  ;  that  it  has  come  down  to  us  not  wholly  re-written,  as  in  the  instance  of  the 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,  and  the  King  John,  but  so  far  remodelled  that  entire  scenes  of  Shakspere 
have  been  substituted  for  entire  scenes  of  the  elder  play ;  and  lastly,  that  this  substitution  has  been 
almost  wholly  confined  to  the  character  of  Timon,  and  that  in  the  development  of  that  character 
alone,  with  the  exception  of  some  few  occasional  toviches  here  and  there,  we  must  look  for  the 
unity  of  the  Shaksperian  conception  of  the  Greek  Misanthropos — the  Timon  of  Aristophanes  and 
Lucian  and  Plutarch — "the  enemy  to  mankind,''  of  the  popular  storybooks — of  the  'Pleasant  His- 
tories and  excellent  Novels,'  which  were  greedily  devoured  by  the  contemporaries  of  the  boyish 
Shakspere.* 

The  contrast  of  style  which  is  to  be  traced  throughout  this  drama  is  sufficiently  striking  in  the  two 
opening  scenes  which  now  constitute  the  first  act.  Nothing  can  be  more  free  and  flowing  than  the 
dialogue  between  the  Poet  and  the  Painter.  It  has  all  the  equable  graces  of  Shakspere's  facility,  with 
occasional  examples  of  that  condensation  of  poetical  images  which  so  distinguishes  him  from  all 
other  writers.     For  instance  : — 

"  AH  those  which  were  his  fellows  but  of  late, 
(Some  better  than  his  value,)  on  the  moment 
Follow  his  strides,  his  lobbies  fill  with  tendance, 
Rain  sacrificial  whisperings  in  his  ear. 
Make  sacred  even  his  stirrup,  and  through  him. 
Drink  the  free  air." 

•  '  The  Palace  of  Pleasure,'  in  which  the  story  of  Timon  is  found,  was  first  published  in  1.575. 

333 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

The  fore  shadowing  of  the  fate  of  Timon  in  the  conclusion  of  this  dialogue  is  part  of  the  almost 
invariable  system  by  which  Shakspere  very  early  infuses  into  his  audience  a  dim  notion  of  the 
catastrophe,— most  frequently  indeed  in  the  shape  of  some  presentiment.  When  Timon  enters  we 
feel  certain  that  he  is  the  Timon  of  Shakspere's  own  conception.  He  is  as  graceful  as  he  is 
generous  ;  his  prodigality  is  -without  the  slightest  particle  of  arrogance ;  he  builds  his  mimificence 
upon  the  necessity  of  gratifying  without  restraint  the  deep  sympathies  which  he  cherishes  to  all  of 
the  human  family.  He  is  the  very  model  too  of  patrons,  appearing  to  receive  instead  of  to  confer 
a  favour  in  his  reward  of  art, — a  complete  gentleman  even  in  the  act  of  purchasing  a  jewel  of  a 
tradesman.  That  the  Apemantus  of  this  scene  belongs  wholly  to  Shakspere  is  not  to  our  minds 
quite  so  certain.  There  is  little  of  wit  in  any  part  of  this  dialogue  ;  and  the  pelting  volley  of  abuse 
between  the  Cynic,  the  Poet,  and  the  Painter,  might  have  been  produced  by  any  writer  who  was 
not  afraid  of  exhibiting  the  tu  qiioque  style  of  repartee  which  distinguishes  the  angry  rhetoric  of 
fish-wives  and  school-boys.  Shakspere,  however,  has  touched  upon  the  original  canvas  ; — no  one 
can  doubt  to  whom  these  lines  belong  : — 

"  So,  so ;  there ! — 

Aches  contract  and  starve  your  supple  joints ! — 
That  there  shoulil  be  small  love  'mongst  these  sweet  knaves, 
And  all  this  court'sy  !     The  strain  of  man's  bred  out 
Into  baboon  and  monkey." 

These  lines  in  the  original  are  printed  as  prose  ;  and  they  continued  so  to  be  printed  by  Theobald 
and  the  editors  who  succeeded  him,  probably  from  its  not  being  considered  that  aches  is  a  dis-syl- 
lable.  This  circumstance  is  a  confirmation  to  us  that  the  dialogue  with  Apemantus  is  not  entirely 
Shakspere's ;  for  it  is  a  most  remarkable  fact  that,  in  all  those  passages  of  which  there  cannot  be  a 
doubt  that  they  were  wholly  written  by  our  poet,  there  is  no  confusion  of  prose  for  verse, — no  diffi- 
culties whatever  in  the  metrical  arrangement, — no  opportimity  presented  for  the  exercise  of  any  inge- 
nuity in  "  regulation."  It  was  this  fact  which  first  led  us  to  perceive,  and  subsequently  to  trace,  the 
differences  between  particular  scenes  and  passages.  Wherever  the  modern  text  follows  the  ancient 
text  with  very  slight  changes,  there  we  could  put  our  finger  undoubtingly  upon  the  work  of  Shak- 
spere. Wherever  the  tinkering  of  Steevens  had  been  at  work,  we  could  discover  that  he  had  been 
attempting  to  repair, — not  "the  chinks  which  time  had  made," — but  something  very  different  from 
the  materials  with  which  Shakspere  constructed.     The  evidence  of  this  is  at  hand. 

If,  in  the  first  scene,  it  would  be  very  difficult  to  say  with  certainty  what  is  not  Shakspere's,  so  in 
the  second  scene  it  appears  to  us  equally  difficult  to  point  out  what  is  Shakspere's.  We  believe 
that  scarcely  any  part  of  this  scene  was  written  by  him ;  we  find  ourselves  at  once  amidst  a  diflferent 
structure  of  verse  from  the  foregoing.  We  encounter  this  difference  remarkably  in  the  first  speech 
of  Timon  : — 

"  I  gave  it  freely  ever;  and  there's  none 
Can  truly  say  he  gives,  if  he  receives : 
If  our  betters  play  at  that  game,  we  must  not  dare 
To  imitate  them  ;  faults  that  are  rich  are  fair." 

In  the  first  scene  we  do  not  find  a  single  rhyming  couplet ; — in  the  second  scene  their  recurrence 
is  more  frequent  than  in  any  of  Shakspere's  plays,  even  the  earliest.  This  scene  alone  gives  us 
sixteen  examples  of  this  form  of  verse ;  which,  in  combination  with  prose  or  blank  verse,  had  been 
almost  entirely  rejected  by  the  mature  Shakspere,  except  to  render  emphatic  the  close  of  a  scene. 
In  the  instance  before  us,  we  find  the  couplet  introduced  in  the  most  arbitrary  and  inartificial  man- 
ner— in  itself  neither  impressive  nor  harmonious.  But  the  contrast  between  the  second  scene  and 
the  first  is  equally  remarkable  in  the  poverty  of  the  thought,  and  the  absence  of  poetical  imagery. 
It  will  be  sufficient,  we  think,  to  put  in  apposition  the  cynic  of  this  scene  and  of  a  subsequent  scene, 
to  show  the  impossibility  of  the  character  having  been  wholly  minted  from  the  same  die  : — 

Act  I.  Scene  ii. 


'  Hey  day ,  what  a  sweep  of  vanity  comes  this  way ' 
They  dance  I  they  are  mad  women: 
Like  madness  is  the  glory  of  this  life. 
As  this  pomp  shows  to  a  little  oil,  and  root. 
We  make  ourselves  fools  to  disport  ourselves; 
And  spend  our  flatteries,  to  drink  those  men, 
Upon  whose  age  we  void  it  up  again, 
334 


Act  IV.  Scene  in. 
"  Thou  hast  cast  away  thyself,  being  like  thyself; 
A  madman  so  long,  now  a  fool :  Wliat,  think'st 
That  the  bleak  air,  tliy  boisterous  chamberlain. 
Will  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?     Will  these  moist  trees, 
That  have  outliv'd  the  eagle,  page  tliy  heels. 
And  skip  when  tliou  point' st  out  ?     Will  the  cold  brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


With  poisonous  spite  and  envy.  To  cure  thy  o'er-night's  surfeit  ?  call  the  creatures, — 

Who  lives  that's  not  depraved,  or  depraves  ?  Whose  n;ikerl  natures  live  iu  all  the  spite 

Who  dies,  that  bears  not  one  spurn  to  their  graves  Of  wreakful  heaven  ;  whose  hare  unhoused  trunks, 

Of  their  friends'  "ift  ?  To  the  conflicting  elements  expos'd, 

I  should  fear,  those  that  dance  before  me  now.  Answer  mere  nature, — bid  them  flatter  thee ; 

Would  one  day  stamp  upon  me  :  It  has  been  done  :  O  '  thou  shall  find " 

Men  shut  their  doors  against  a  setting  sun." 

Let  US  try  the  Steward  of  the  first  act  and  the  Steward  of  the  second  act  by  the  same  test.  We 
print  the  speech  in  the  first  column  as  we  find  it  in  the  original.  With  the  exception  of  the  two 
rhyming  couplets,  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  it  is  prose  or  verse.  It  has  been  "  regulated  "  into 
verse,  as  we  shall  show  in  our  foot  notes ;  but  no  change  can  make  it  metrical ; — the  feebleness  of 
the  thought  is  the  same  under  every  disguise.  On  the  other  hand,  the  harmony,  the  vigour,  the 
poetical  elevation  of  the  second  passage,  like  the  greater  part  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts,  effectually 
prevent  all  substitution  and  transposition  : 


Act  I.  Scene  ii 
"  Flav.  WTiat  will  this  come  to  ? 

He  commauds  us  to  provide,  and  give  great  gifts. 
And  all  out  of  an  empty  cofler. — 
Nor  will  he  know  his  purse;  or  yield  me  this. 
To  show  him  what  a  beggar  his  heart  is, 
Ueing  of  no  power  to  make  his  wishes  good  ; 
His  promises  fly  so  beyond  his  state. 

That  what  he  speaks  is  all  in  debt,  he  owes  for  every  word  ; 
He  is  so  kind,  that  he  now  pays  interest  for  t ; 
His  lands  put  to  their  books.     Well,  'would  I  were 
Gently  put  out  of  office,  before  I  were  forc'd  out  I 
Happier  is  he  that  hath  no  friend  to  feed. 
Than  such  that  do  even  enemies  exceed. 
I  bleed  inwardly  for  my  lord." 


Act  II.  Scene  ii. 

"  Flav.  If  you  suspect  my  husbandry,  or  falsehood. 
Call  me  before  the  exactest  auditors. 
And  set  me  on  the  proof.     So  the  gods  bless  me. 
When  all  our  offices  have  been  oppress'd 
With  riotous  feeders ;  when  our  vaults  have  wept 
With  drunken  spilth  of  wine  ;  w  hen  everj'  room 
Hath  blaz'd  with  lights,  and  bray'd  with  minstrelsy; 
I  have  retir'd  me  to  a  wasteful  cock. 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow. 

Tim.  Prithee,  no  more. 

Flav.  Heavens,  have  I  said,  the  bounty  of  this  lord  1 
How  many  prodigal  bits  have  slaves,  and  peasants. 
This  night  englutted  !     Who  is  not  Timon's  ? 
What  heart,  head,  sword,  force,  means,  but  is  lord  Timon's  ? 
Great  Timon,  noble,  worthy,  royal  Timon  ! 
Ah  I  when  the  means  are  gone  that  buy  this  praise. 
The  breath  is  gone  whereof  this  praise  is  made : 
Feast-won,  fast-lost ;  one  cloud  of  winter  showers. 
These  flies  are  eouch'd." 

The  modern  division  of  this  play  into  acts  and  scenes  has  given  us  a  remarkable  short  second  act. 
The  Senator  of  the  first  scene  may  be  Shakspere's.  The  scene  between  the  Servants,  the  Fool,  and 
the  cynic,  has  very  little  of  his  animation  or  his  wit.  But  who  is  the  fool's  mistress?  Johnson  saw 
the  want  of  connexion  between  this  dialogue  and  what  had  preceded  it : — "  I  suspect  some  scene 
to  be  lost,  in  which  the  entrance  of  the  Fool  and  the  Page  that  follows  him,  was  prepared  by  some 
introductory  dialogue,  in  which  the  audience  was  informed  that  they  were  the  fool  and  page  of 
Phrynia,  Timandra,  or  some  other  courtezan,  upon  the  knowledge  of  which  depends  the  greater 
part  of  the  ensuing  jocularity."  We  shall  have  occasion  to  notice  this  want  of  connexion  in  other 
scenes  of  the  play.  In  that  before  us,  if  the  Timon  were  an  older  drama  remodelled  by  Shakspere, 
the  reason  for  the  retention  of  the  scene,  disjointed  as  it  is,  is  obvious. — The  audience  had  been  ac- 
customed to  the  Fool ;  and  it  was  of  little  consequence  whether  his  speeches  had  any  very  strict 
connexion  with  the  more  important  scenes.  The  whole  thing  wants  the  spirit  of  Shakspere,  and  it 
wants  also  the  play  upon  words  which  he  almost  invariably  employed  upon  such  occasions.  The 
Fool,  the  Page,  the  cynic,  and  the  Servants,  ai-e  simply  abusive. 

The  scene  between  Timon  and  the  Steward,  to  the  end  of  the  act,  is  unquestionably  from  the 
master-hand  of  our  poet.  The  character  of  Timon  as  his  ruin  is  approaching  him  is  beautifully 
developed.  His  reproach  of  his  steward,  slightly  unjust  as  it  is,  is  in  a  tone  perfectly  in  accord- 
ance with  the  kindness  of  his  nature  ;  and  his  rising  anger  is  forgotten  in  a  moment  in  his 
complete  conviction  of  the  integrity  of  that  honest  servant.  His  entire  reliance  upon  the  gratitude 
of  his  friends  is  most  touching.  Thoroughly  Shaksperian  is  the  steward's  description  of  the 
coldness  of  the  senators ;  and  Timon's  answer  is  no  less  characteristic  of  the  great  interpreter  of 
human  feelings. 

We  venture  to  express  a  conviction  that  very  little  of  the  third  act  is  Shakspere's.  The  ingra- 
titude of  Lucullus  in  the  first  scene,  and  of  Lucius  in  the  second,  is  amusingly  displayed ;  but  there 
is  little  power  in  the  development  of  character — little  discrimination.  The  passionate  invective  of 
Flaminius  is  forcible  :  but  the  force  is  not  exactly  that  of  Shakspere.     The  dialogue  between  the 

335 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

Strangers,  at  the  end  of  the  second  scene,  is  unmetrical  enough  in  the  original ;  Steevens  has  made 
it  hobble  still  worse.  The  third  scene  has  the  same  incurable  defects.  It  seems  to  us  perfectly- 
impossible  that  Shakspere  could  have  produced  thoughts  so  commonplace,  and  verse  so  unmusical, 
as  -we  find  in  the  speech  of  Sempronius.  The  fourth  scene,  again,  has  little  peculiaritjw  It  might 
be  Shakspere 's,  or  it  might  be  the  work  of  an  inferior  writer.  Of  the  fifth  scene  we  venture  to  say 
most  distinctly  that  it  is  not  Shakspere's.  Independently  of  the  internal  evidence  of  thought  and 
style  (which  we  shall  come  to  presently),  this  scene  of  the  banishment  of  Alcibiades,  and  the  con- 
cluding scene  of  his  return  to  Athens,  appear  to  belong  to  a  drama  of  which  the  story  of  this  brave 
and  profligate  Athenian  formed  a  much  more  important  feature  than  in  the  present  play.  That 
story  stands  here  strictly  as  an  episode.  The  banishment  of  Alcibiades  is  perfectly  unconnected 
with  the  misanthropy  of  Timon ; — the  return  of  Alcibiades  takes  place  after  Timon's  death.  We 
feel  no  interest  in  either  event.  Ulrici  has  noticed  the  uncertain  connexion  of  this  drama  as  a 
whole,  particularly  in  the  scene  before  us,  "  where  it  remains  quite  unknown  who  is  the  unfor- 
tunate friend  for  whom  Alcibiades  petitions  so  earnestly  that  he  is  banished  for  it."  In  Shakspere's 
hand  the  banishment  of  Alcibiades  is  only  used  in  connexion  with  the  wonderful  scene  in  the 
fourth  act.  In  the  older  drama  we  have  no  doubt  that  it  formed  an  integral  portion  of  the  action, 
and  that  Timon  himself  was  only  incidental  to  the  catastrophe,  Shakspere  was  satisfied  to  take 
the  frame-work,  as  he  found  it,  of  the  story  which  he  might  connect  with  his  display  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Timon.  The  scene  before  us,  and  the  concluding  scene  of  the  fifth  act,  present,  we 
think,  nearly  every  characteristic  by  which  the  early  contemporaries  of  Shakspere  are  to  be  distin- 
guished from  him;  and  the  negation,  in  the  same  degree,  of  all  those  qualities  which  render  him  so 
immeasurably  superior  to  every  other  dramatic  poet. 

The  scene  between  Alcibiades  and  the  Senate  consists  of  about  a  hundred  and  twenty  lines. — Of 
these  lines  twenty-six  form  rhyming  couplets.  This  of  itself  is  enough  to  make  us  look  suspiciously 
upon  the  scene,  when  presented  as  the  work  of  Shakspere.  Could  the  poet  have  proposed  any 
object  to  himself,  by  this  extraordinary  departure  from  his  usual  prhiciple  of  versification,  pre- 
senting even  in  this  play  an  especial  contrast  to  the  mighty  rush  and  sustained  grandeur  of  the 
blank  verse  in  the  speeches  of  Timon  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts?  Is  not  the  perpetual  and 
ofl'ensive  recurrence  of  the  couplet  an  evidence  that  this  and  other  scenes  of  the  play  were  of  the 
same  school  as  '  The  History  of  King  Lear  and  his  Three  Daughters,'  upon  which  Shakspere 
founded  his  own  Lear?     We  will  take  an  example  from  that  play,  almost  at  random  : — 

"      Skalliger.  A  worthy  care,  ray  Vvge,  wliich  well  declares 
The  zeal  you  bear  unto  our  quondam  queen  : 
Aiul  since  your  grace  hath  licens'd  me  to  speak, 
I  censure  thus;  your  majesty  knowing  well. 
What  several  suitors  your  princely  da\igliters  have. 
To  make  them  each  a  jointure  more  or  less, 
As  is  their  wortli,  to  them  that  love  profess. 

Lear.  No  more,  nor  less,  but  even  all  aliUe, 
My  zeal  is  fix  d  all  fashion'd  in  one  mould  : 
Wherefore  impartial  shall  my  censure  be. 
Both  old  and  young  shall  have  alike  for  me. 

Nobles.  My  gracious  lord,  I  heartily  do  wish. 
That  God  hath  lent  you  an  heir  indubitate. 
Which  might  have  set  upon  your  royal  throne. 
When  fates  should  loose  the  prison  of  your  life. 
By  whose  succession  all  this  doubt  might  cease; 
And  as  by  you,  by  him  we  might  have  peace. 
But  after-wishes  ever  cume  too  late. 
And  nothing  can  revol<e  the  course  of  fate  : 
Wherefore,  my  liege,  my  censure  deems  it  best 
To  match  them  with  some  of  your  neighbour  kings, 
Bord'ring  within  the  bounds  of  Albion." 

The  whole  of  the  senate  scene  in  Timon  is  singularly  unmetrical ;  but  wherever  the  verse  be- 
comes regular  it  is  certainly  not  the  metre  of  Shakspere.  Mark  the  pause,  for  example,  that  occurs 
at  the  end  of  every  line  of  the  first  speech  of  Alcibiades.  "  The  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out"' 
is  utterly  wanting.  The  last  scene  of  the  fifth  act  has  the  same  peculiarity.  But  in  addition  to  the 
structure  of  the  verse,  the  character  of  the  thought  is  essentially  different  from  that  of  the  true 
Shaksperian  drama.  Where  is  our  poet's  imagery  ?  From  the  first  line  of  this  scene  to  the  last, 
336 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 

the  speeches,  though  cast  into  the  form  of  verse,  are  in  reality  nothing  but  measured  prose.  The 
action  of  this  scene  admitted  either  of  passion  or  reflection ;  and  we  know  how  Shakspere  puts 
forth  either  power  whenever  the  occasion  demands  it.  The  passion  of  Alcibiades  is  of  the  most 
vapid  character  : — 

•'  Now  the  gods  keep  you  old  enough  ;  that  you  may  live 
Only  iu  bone  that  none  may  look  on  you !" 

Let  us  contrast  for  a  moment  the  Shaksperian  Coriolanus,  under  somewhat  similar  circumstances : — 

"  You  common  cry  of  curs,  whose  breath  I  hate, 
*  As  reek  o'  th'  rotten  feus  :  whose  loves  I  prize. 

As  the  dead  carcasses  of  unburied  men. 
That  do  corrupt  my  air  :  I  banish  you." 

In  this  scene  between  Alcibiades  and  the  senate,  the  usually  profound  reflection  of  Shakspere, 
which  plunges  us  into  the  depths  of  our  own  hearts,  and  the  most  unfathomable  mysteries  of  the 
world  around  us  and  beyond  us,  is  exchanged  for  such  slight  axioms  as  the  following  : — 

"  Fur  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law. 
And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly." 

"  To  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear." 

"  To  be  in  anger  is  impiety, 

But  who  is  man  that  is  not  angry." 

The  form  of  expression  in  these  scenes  with  Alcibiades  appears  to  us  as  remarkably  un-Shaksperian 
as  the  character  of  the  thought.  By  nothing  is  our  poet  more  distinguished  than  by  his  concise- 
ness,— the  quality  that  makes  him  so  often  apparently  obscure.  Shakspere  would  have  dismissed 
the  following  idea  in  three  words  instead  of  three  lines : — 

"  By  decimation,  and  a  tithed  death, 
(If  thy  revenges  hunger  for  that  food. 
Which  nature  loaths)  take  thou  the  destin'd  tenth." 

The  original  stage  direction  of  the  sixth  scene  of  the  fourth  act  is,  "  Enter  divers  Friends  at 
several  doors  ;"  and  there  is  a  subseqvient  direction  at  the  end  of  the  scene — "  Enter  the  Senators 
with  other  Lords."  Ulrici,  looking  at  the  modern  stage  direction,  "  enter  divers  lords,"  is  siu^rised 
that  Tim  on 's  most  intimate  friends  (Lucius,  Lucullus,  Sempronius)  are  omitted.  We  doubt 
whether  the  previous  scenes  in  which  these  friends  are  introduced  are  those  of  Shakspere  ;  and  m 
the  same  way  it  appears  to  us  that  our  poet  took  the  scene  before  us  as  he  found  it,  adding  perhaps 
Timon's  vehement  imprecations  against  his — 

"  Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites." 
The  scene  concludes  with  this  line — 

"  One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next  day  stones." 

Mr.  Strutt  had  in  his  possession  an  old  manuscript  play  on  the  subject  of  Timon,  in  which  there 
is  a  banquet  of  the  same  character  as  the  scene  before  us,  where  painted  stones  are  set  before  the 
guests.  Steevens  thinks  that  this  drama  "  had  been  read  by  our  author,  and  that  he  supposed  he 
had  introduced  from  it  the  painted  stones  as  part  of  the  banquet,  though  in  reality  he  had  omitted 
them."  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  Steevens  did  not  furnish  us  with  a  more  particular  account 
of  this  drama,  of  which  he  has  given  us  little  besides  the  list  of  characters.  We  have  little  doubt, 
however,  that  Timon  was  familiar  to  the  stage  before  Shakspere  took  up  the  subject ;  and  we 
further  believe  that  the  dialogue  which  concludes  this  act,  after  Timon's  imprecation,  was  trans- 
ferred from  an  older  play  without  much  regard  to  its  nice  adaptation.  Shakspere,  according  to  our 
belief,  did  what  he  undertook  to  do,  and  perhaps  he  did  more  than  he  intended.  He  completely 
remodelled  the  character  of  Timon,  He  left  it  standing  apart  in  its  naked  power  and  majesty, 
without  much  regard  to  what  surrounded  it.  It  might  have  been  a  hasty  experiment  to  produce  a 
new  character  for  Burbage,  the  greatest  of  Elizabethan  actors.  That  Timon  is  so  all  in  all  in  the 
play  is,  to  our  minds,  much  better  explained  by  the  belief  that  Shakspere  engrafted  it  upon  the 
feebler  Timon  of  a  feeble  drama  that  held  possession  of  the  stage,  than  by  the  common  opinion 
that  he,  having  written  the  play  entirely,  had  left  us  only  a  corrupt  text,  or  left  it  unfinished,  with 
parts  not  only  out  of  harmony  with  the  drama  as  a  whole,  in  action,  in  sentiment,  in  versification, 

Traoedies.— Vol,.  I.         2  X  337 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

but  altogether  different  from  anything  he  had  himself  produced  in  his  early,  his  mature,  or  his 
later  years. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  for  us  very  minutely  to  follow  the  successive  passages  of  the  fourth  and 
fifth  acts,  in  our  endeavours  to  trace  the  hand  of  Shakspere.  We  may,  howevei-,  briefly  point  out 
the  passages  which  we  believe  not  to  be  his.  The  second  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  between  the 
Steward  and  the  servants,  has  some  touches  undoubtedly  of  the  master's  hand;  the  steward's 
speech,  after  the  servants  have  left,  again  presents  us  the  rhyming  couplets,  and  the  unmetrical 
blank  verse.  The  scene  between  the  Poet  and  the  Painter,  at  the  commencement  of  the  fifth 
act,  is  so  unmetrical,  that  it  has  been  printed  as  prose  by  all  modern  editors,  and  we  scarcely 
know  how  to  avoid  following  the  example.  We  have  already  exhibited  a  specimen  of  this 
hobbling  approach  to  metre — the  characteristic  of  several  of  the  rude  plays  which  preceded  Shaks- 
pere, such  as  '  The  Famous  Victories  of  Henry  the  Fifth.'  Mr.  Collier  considers  that  play  to  be 
wholly  prose;  but  he  adds,  "  by  the  time  it  was  printed,  blank-verse  had  completely  superseded 
both  rhyme  and  prose  :  the  publisher  seems,  on  this  account,  to  have  chopped  up  much  of  the  original 
prose  into  lines  of  various  lengths,  in  order  to  look  like  some  kind  of  measure,  and  now  and  then  he 
has  cofitrived  to  find  lines  often  syllables  each,  that  run  with  tolerable  smoothness,  and  as  if  they  had 
been  written  for  blank-verse."  We  venture  to  think,  that,  although  the  greater  part  of  '  The  Fa- 
mous Victories'  was  intended  for  prose,  "  the  lines  of  ten  syllables  each  that  run  with  tolerable 
smoothness,"  were  written  for  blank  verse ;  and  this,  we  believe,  is  the  case  with  parts  of  the  scene 
in  Timon  which  we  are  now  describing.  But,  whether  they  speak  in  prose  or  verse,  the  Poet  and 
the  Painter  of  this  scene  are  as  unlike  the  Poet  and  the  Painter  of  the  first  act,  in  the  tone  of  their 
dialogues,  as  can  be  well  imagined.  Timon,  in  the  lines  which  he  speaks  aside,  has  caught  this 
infection  of  unmetrical  blank-verse,  which  reads  like  prose,  and  jingling  couplets  which  want  the 
spirit  of  poetry.  The  Soldier  at  Timon's  tomb  is  marked  by  the  same  characteristics.  Of  the  con- 
cluding scene  of  the  return  of  Alcibiades  to  Athens,  we  have  already  spoken. 

It  is  not  by  looking  apart  at  the  scenes  and  passages  which  we  have  endeavoured  to  separate  from 
the  undoubted  scenes  and  passages  of  Shakspere,  in  this  play,  that  we  can  rightly  judge  of  their 
inferiority.  They  must  be  contrasted  with  the  great  scenes  of  the  fourth  act,  and  with  Timon's 
portion  of  the  fifth, — the  essentially  tragic  portions  of  this  extraordinary  drama.  In  power  those 
scenes  are  almost  unequalled.  They  are  not  pleasing — they  are  sometimes  positively  repulsive 
in  the  images  which  they  present  to  us ;  but  in  the  tremendous  strength  of  passionate  invective  we 
know  not  what  can  be  compared  to  them.  In  Lear,  the  deep  pity  for  the  father  is  an  ever-present 
feeling,  mingling  with  the  terror  which  he  produces  by  his  denimciations  of  his  daughters ;  but 
in  Timon,  the  poet  has  not  once  sought  to  move  our  pity ;  by  throwing  him  into  an  attitude 
of  undiscriminating  hostility  to  the  human  race,  he  scarcely  claims  any  human  sympathy.  Properly 
to  understand  the  scenes  of  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts,  we  must  endeavour  to  form  a  general  esti- 
mate of  the  character  which  Shakspere  has  here  created. 

The  Timon  of  Shakspere  is  not  the  Timon  of  the  popular  stories  of  Shakspere's  day.  The 
28th  novel  of  '  The  Palace  of  Pleasure '  has  for  its  title  "  Of  the  strange  and  beastly  natiure  of 
Timon  of  Athens,  enemy  to  mankind."  According  to  this  authority,  "  he  was  a  man  but  by  shape 
only" — he  lived  "  a  beastly  an-d  churlish  life."  The  story  further  tells  us,  "  at  the  same  time  there 
was  in  Athens  another  of  like  quality  called  Apemantus,  of  the  very  same  nature,  different  from  the 
natural  kind  of  man."*  Neither  was  the  Timon  of  Plutarch  the  Timon  of  Shakspere.  The  Greek 
biographer,  indeed,  tells  us,  that  he  was  angry  with  all  men,  and  would  trust  no  man,  "  for  the 
unthankfulness  of  those  he  had  done  good  unto,  and  whom  he  took  to  be  his  friends,"  but  that  he 
was  represented  as  "  a  viper  and  malicious  man  unto  mankind,  to  shun  all  other  men's  com- 
panies but  the  company  of  young  Alcibiades,  a  bold  and  insolent  youth,  whom  he  would  greatly 
feast  and  make  much  of  and  kissed  him  very  gladly."  Plutarch  also  adds,  "  This  Timon  some- 
times would  have  Apemantus  in  his  company,  because  he  was  much  liked  to  his  nature  and  con- 
ditions, and  also  followed  him  in  manner  of  life."t  The  Timon,  therefore,  of  Plutarch,  and  of  the 
popidar  stories  of  Shakspere's  time,  was  little  different  from  the  ordinary  cynic,  such  as  he  is 
described  by  Lucian :  "  But  now,  mind  how  you  are  to  behave:  you  must  be  bold,  saucy,  and 
abusive  to  everybody,  kings  and  beggars  alike ;  this  is  the  way  to  make  them  look  upon  you,  and 

*  We  give  this  novel  at  length  as  an  Illustration  of  Act  v. 

t  See  the  quotation  from  '  North's  Plutarch,'  as  an  Illustration  of  Act.  lu. 

^38 


TIMON  or  ATHENS. 

think  you  a  great  man.  Your  voice  should  be  barbarous,  and  your  speech  dissonant,  as  like  a  dog 
as  possible  ;  your  countenance  rigid  and  inflexible,  and  your  gait  and  demeanour  suitable  to  it : 
everything  you  say  savage  and  uncouth:  modesty,  equity,  and  moderation,  you  must  have 
nothing  to  do  with :  never  suffer  a  blush  to  come  upon  your  cheek  :  seek  the  most  public  and 
frequented  place  ;  but  when  you  are  there,  desire  to  be  alone,  and  permit  neither  friend  nor 
stranger  to  associate  with  you  ;  for  these  things  are  the  ruin  and  destruction  of  power  and 
empire."*  The  conti-ast  in  Shakspere  between  Timon  and  Apemantus,  as  developed  in  the  fourth 
act,  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  proofs  of  our  poet's  wonderful  sagacity  in  depicting  the  nicer 
shades  of  character.  Johnson,  speaking  of  the  scene  between  the  misanthrope  and  the  cynic  in 
the  fourth  act,  says,  "  1  have  heard  Mr.  Burke  commend  the  subtlety  of  discrimination  with  which 
Shakspere  distinguishes  the  present  character  of  Timon  from  that  of  Apemantus,  whom  to  vulgar 
eyes  he  woiUd  now  resemble."  The  Timon  of  Shakspere  is  in  many  respects  essentially  different 
from  any  model  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  but  it  approaches  nearer,  as  Mr.  Skottowe  first 
observed,  to  the  Timon  of  Lucian  than  the  commentators  have  chosen  to  point  out:  "  It  has  been 
deemed  a  satisfactory  conclusion  that  he  derived  none  of  his  materials  from  Lucian,  because  no 
translation  of  the  dialogue  of  Timon  is  known  to  have  existed  in  Shakspere's  age.  But  it  should 
rather  have  been  inferred,  from  the  many  striking  coincidences  between  the  play  and  the  dialogue, 
that  Lucian  had  some  influence  over  the  composition  of  Timon,  although  the  channel  through  which 
that  influence  was  communicated  is  no  longer  to  be  traced. "f  Before  we  proceed  to  an  analysis 
of  the  Shaksperian  Timon,  it  may  be  well  to  take  a  rapid  glance  at  the  dialogue  of  Lucian,  to  which 
Mr.  Skottowe  refers. 

'  Timon,  or  the  Misanthrope,'  opens  with  an  address  of  Timon  to  Jupiter,— the  protector  of 
friendship  and  of  hospitality.     The  misanthrope  asks  what  has  become  of  the]  god's  thunderbolt, 
that  he   no  longer  revenges   the  wickedness  of  men?     He  then  describes  his  own  calamities. 
After  having  enriched  a  crowd  of  Athenians  that  he  had  rescued  from  misery, — after  having  pro- 
fusely distributed  his  riches  amongst  his  friends,  those  ungrateful  men  despise  him  because  he  has 
become  poor.     Timon  speaks  from  the  desert,  where  he  is  clothed  with  skins,  and  labours  with  a 
spade.     Jupiter  inquires  of  Mercury  who  it  is  cries  so  loud  from  the  depth  of  the  valley  near 
Mount  Hymettus  ;  and  Mercury  answers  that  he  is  Timon — that  rich  man  who  so  frequently 
offered  whole   hecatombs  to  the  gods ;  and   adds,  that  it  was  at  first  thought  that  he  was  the 
victim  of  his  goodness,  his  philanthropy,  and  his  compassion  for  the  unfortunate,  but  that  he 
ought  to  attribute  his  fall  to  the  bad  choice  which  he  made  of  his  friends,  and  to  the  want  ot 
discernment  which  prevented  him  seeing  that  he  was  heaping  benefits  upon  wolves  and  ravens. 
*'  Whilst  these  vultures  were  preying  upon  his  liver,  he  thought  them  his  best  friends,  and  that 
they  fed  upon  him  out  of  pure  love  and  affection.     After  they  had  gnawed  him  all  round,  ate  his 
bones  bare,  and,  if  there  was  any  man-ow  in  them,  sucked  it  carefully  out,  they  left  him,  cut  down 
to  the  roots  and  withered  ;  and  so  far  from  relieving  or  assisting  him  in  their  turns,  would  not  so 
much  as  know  or  look  upon  him.     This  has  made  him  turn  digger ;  and  here,  in  his  skin  garment, 
he  tills  the  earth  for  hire  ;  ashamed  to  show  himself  in  the  city,  and  venting  his  rage  against  the 
ingratitude  of  those  who,  enriched  as  they  had  been  by  him,  now  proudly  pass  along,  and  know 
not  whether  his  name  is  Timon."     Jupiter  resolves  to  despatch  Mercury  and  Plutus  to  bestow 
new  wealth  upon  Timon,  and  the  god  of  riches  very  reluctantly  consents  to  go,  because,  if  he 
return  to  Timon,  he  should  again  become  the  prey  of  parasites  and  courtezans.     The  subsequent 
dialogue  between  Mercury  and  Plutus,  upon  the  use  of  riches,  is  exceedingly  acute  and  amusing. 
The  gods,  upon  approaching  Timon,  descry  him  working  with  his  spade,  in  company  with  Labour, 
Poverty,  Wisdom,  Courage,  and  all  the  virtues  that  are  in  the  train  of  indigence.     Poverty  thus 
addresses  Plutus  : — "You  come  to  find  Timon  ;  and  as  to  me  who  have  received  him  enervated  by 
luxury,  he  would  forsake  me  when  I  have  rendered  him  virtuous :  you  come  to  enrich  him  anew, 
which  will  render  him  as  before,  idle,  effeminate,  and  besotted."     Timon  rejects  the  offers  which 
Plutus  makes  him  ;  and  the  gods  leave  him,  desiring  him  to  continue  digging.     He  then  finds  gold, 
and  thus  apostrophizes  it: — "  It  is,  it  must  be,  gold,  fine,  yellow,  noble,  gold;   heavy,  sweet  to 

behold Burning  like  fire,  thou  shinest  day  and  night :  come  to  me,  thou  dear  delightful 

treasure!  now  do  I  believe  that  Jove  himself  was  once  turned  into  gold  :  what  virgin  would  not 

*  Lucian's  '  Sain  of  Philosophers.' — Franklin's  Translation, 
t  '  Life  of  Shaksjieare,'  vol  ii.,  page  280. 

339 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

spread  forth  her  bosom  to  receive  so  beautiful  a  lover?"  But  the  Timon  of  Lucian  has  other 
uses  for  his  riches  than  Plutus  anticipated ; — he  will  guard  them  without  employing  them  ;  he 
will,  as  he  says,  "purchase  some  retired  spot,  there  build  a  tower*  to  keep  my  gold  in,  and  live  for 
myself  alone :  this  shall  be  my  habitation  ;  and,  when  I  am  dead,  my  sepulchre  also  :  from  this 
time  forth  it  is  my  fixed  resolution  to  have  no  commerce  or  connection  with  mankind,  but  to 
despise  and  avoid  it.  I  will  pay  no  regard  to  acquaintance,  friendship,  pity,  or  compassion  :  to 
pity  the  distressed  or  to  relieve  the  indigent  I  shall  consider  as  a  weakness, — nay,  as  a  crime  ;  my 
life,  like  the  beasts  of  the  field,  shall  be  spent  in  solitude,  and  Timon  alone  shall  be  Timon's 
friend.  I  will  treat  all  beside  as  enemies  and  betrayers  ;  to  converse  with  them  were  profanation  ; 
to  herd  with  them,  impiety  :  accursed  be  the  day  that  brings  them  to  my  sight !  "  The  most  agree- 
able name  to  me,  he  adds,  shall  be  that  of  Misanthrope.  A  crowd  approach  who  have  heard  of  his 
good  fortune ;  and  first  comes  Gnathon,  a  parasite,  who  brings  him  a  new  poem — a  dithyrambe. 
Timon  strikes  him  down  with  his  spade.  Another,  and  another,  succeeds ;  and  one  comes  from 
the  senate  to  hail  him  as  the  safeguard  of  the  Athenians.  Each  in  his  turn  is  welcomed  with 
blows.  The  dialogue  concludes  with  Timon's  determination  to  mount  upon  a  rock,  and  to  receive 
every  man  with  a  shower  of  stones. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  we  think,  that  a  great  resemblance  may  be  traced  between  the  Greek 
satirist  and  the  English  dramatist.  The  false  friends  of  Timon  are  much  more  fully  described  by 
Lucian  than  by  Plutarch.  The  finding  the  gold  is  the  same, — the  rejection  of  it  by  the  Timon 
of  Shakspere  is  essentially  the  same  : — the  poet  of  the  play  was  perhaps  suggested  by  the  flatterer 
who  came  with  the  new  ode ; — the  senator  with  his  gratulations  is  not  very  different  from  the 
senators  in  the  drama ; — the  blows  and  stones  are  found  both  in  the  ancient  and  the  modern.  There 
are  minor  similarities  which  might  be  readily  traced,  if  we  believed  that  Shakspere  had  gone  direct 
to  Lucian.  But  our  opinion  is  that  he  found  those  similarities  in  the  play  which  we  are  convinced 
he  remodelled.  It  is  in  the  conception  and  the  execution  of  the  character  of  Timon  that  the 
original  power  of  Shakspere  is  to  be  traced. 

The  vices  of  Shakspere's  Timon  are  not  the  vices  of  a  sensualist.  It  is  true  that  his  offices  have 
been  oppressed  with  riotous  feeders, — that  his  vaults  have  wept  with  drunken  spilth  of  wine, — 
that  every  room — 

"  Hath  blaz'd  with  lights,  and  bray'd  with  minstrelsy  ; " 
But  he  has  nothing  selfish  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  prodigality  and  his  magnificence.  He  himself 
truly  expresses  the  weakness,  as  well  as  the  beauty,  of  his  own  character  :  "  Why,  I  have  often 
wished  myself  poorer,  that  I  might  come  nearer  to  you.  We  are  born  to  do  benefits,  and  what 
better  or  properer  can  we  call  our  own,  than  the  riches  of  our  friends  ?  O,  what  a  precious  comfort 
'tis,  to  have  so  many,  like  brothers,  commanding  one  another's  fortunes  ! "  Charles  Lamb,  in  his 
contrast  between  Timon  of  Athens  and  Hogarth's  'Rake's  Progress,'  which  we  have  quoted  as  in 
illusti-ation  to  Act  i.,  has  scarcely  done  justice  to  Timon  :  "  The  wild  course  of  riot  and  extravagance, 
ending  in  the  one  with  driving  the  Prodigal  from  the  society  of  men  into  the  solitude  of  the  deserts; 
and,  in  the  other,  with  conducting  Hogarth's  Rake  through  his  several  stages  of  dissipation  into  the 
still  more  complete  desolations  of  the  mad-house,  in  the  play  and  in  the  picture  are  described  with 
almost  equal  force  and  nature."  Hogarth's  Rake  is  all  sensuality  and  selfishness ;  Timon  is 
essentially  high-minded  and  generous  :  he  truly  says,  in  the  first  chill  of  his  fortunes — 

"  No  villanous  bounty  yet  hath  pass'd  my  heart. 
Unwisely,  not  ignobly,  have  I  given." 

In  his  splendid  speech  to  Apemantus  in  the  fourth  act,  he  distinctly  proclaims,  that  in  the  weak- 
ness with  which  he  had  lavished  his  fortunes  upon  the  unworthy,  he  had  not  pampered  his  own 
passions : — 

"  Hadst  thou,  like  us,  from  our  first  swath,  proceeded 
The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brii'f  world  affords 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plung'd  thyself 
In  general  riot ;  melted  down  thy  youth 
In  different  beds  of  lust;  and  never  learn'd 
The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  but  follow' d 
The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.     But  myself, 

*  A  building  called  the  Tower  of  Timon  is  mentioned  by  Pausanias. 

340 


TIM  ON  OF  ATHENS. 

will)  li;id  the  WDvld  as  my  conrectidn.iiy  ; 

The-  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes,  and  lieurts  of  men 

At  duty,  more  than  I  could  I'rame  employment ; 

That  numheiless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 

Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 

Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 

For  every  storm  that  blows." 

The  alI-absoil)ing  defect  of  Timon — the  root  of  those  generous  vices  wliich  wear  the  garb  of  virtue — 
is  the  entire  want  of  discrimination,  by  which  he  is  also  characterized  in  Lucian's  dialogue.  Shak- 
spere  has  seized  upon  this  point,  and  held  firmly  to  it.  He  releases  Ventidius  from  prison, — he 
bestows  an  estate  upon  his  servant, — he  lavishes  jewels  upon  all  the  dependants  who  crowd  his 
board ; — 

"  Methinks  1  could  deal  kingdoms  to  my  friends 
And  ne'er  be  weary." 

That  universal  philanthropy,  of  which  the  most  selfish  men  sometimes  talk,  is  in  Timon  an  active 
principle  ;  but  let  it  be  observed  that  he  has  no  preferences.  It  appears  to  us  a  most  remarkable 
example  of  the  profound  sagacity  of  Shakspere,  to  exhibit  Timon  without  any  especial  affections. 
It  is  thus  that  his  philanthropy  passes  without  any  violence  into  the  extreme  of  universal  hatred  to 
mankind.  Had  he  loved  a  single  human  being  with  that  intensity  which  constitutes  affection  in 
the  relation  of  the  sexes,  and  friendship  in  the  relation  of  man  toman,  he  would  have  been  exempt 
from  that  unjudging  lavishness  which  was  necessary  to  satisfy  his  morbid  craving  for  human  sym- 
pathy. Shakspere,  we  think,  has  kept  this  most  steadily  in  view.  His  surprise  at  the  fidelity  of  his 
steward  is  exhibited,  as  if  the  love  for  any  human  being  in  preference  to  another  came  upon  him 
like  a  new  sensation  : — • 

"  Flav.  I  beg  of  you  to  know  me,  good  my  lord. 

To  accept  my  grief,  and  whilst  this  poor  wealth  lasts, 

To  entertain  me  as  your  steward  still. 

Tim.  Had  I  a  steward 
So  true,  so  .just,  and  now  so  comfortable  ? 
It  almost  turns  my  dangerous  nature  wild. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face. — Surely,  this  man 
Was  born  of  woman. — 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness. 
You  perpetual-sober  gods !  I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man, — mistake  me  not, — but  one  ; 
'  No  more,  I  pray, — and  he  is  a  steward. — 

How  fain  would  I  haTe  hated  all  mankind. 
And  thou  redeem'st  thyself:  But  all,  save  thee, 
I  fell  with  curses." 

With  this  key  to  Timon's  character,  it  appears  to  us  that  we  may  properly  understand  the 
"  general  and  exceptless  rashness"  of  his  misanthropy.  The  only  relations  in  which  he  stood  to 
mankind  are  utterly  destroyed.  In  lavishing  his  wealth  as  if  it  were  a  common  property,  he  had 
believed  that  the  same  common  property  would  flow  back  to  him  in  his  hour  of  adversity.  "  O, 
you  gods,  think  I,  what  need  we  have  any  friends,  if  we  should  never  have  need  of  them?  they 
were  the  most  needless  creatures  living,  should  we  ne'er  have  use  for  them  :  and  would  most  re- 
semble sweet  instruments  hung  up  in  cases,  that  keep  their  sounds  to  themselves."  His  false  con- 
fidence is  at  once,  and  irreparably,  destroyed.  If  Timon  had  possessed  one  friend  with  whom  he 
could  have  interchanged  confidence  upon  equal  terms,  he  would  have  been  saved  from  his  fall, 
and  certainly  from  his  misanthropy.  If  he  had  even  fallen  by  false  confidence,  he  would  have  con- 
fined his  hatred  to  his — 

"  Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites. 

Courteous  destroyers,  affable  wolves,  meek  bears." 

But  his  nature  has  sustained  a  complete  revulsion,  because  his  sympathies  were  forced,  exaggerated, 
artificial.     It  is  then  that  all  social  life  becomes  to  him  an  object  of  abomination  : — 

"  Piety  and  fear. 


ReligioA  to  the  gods,  peace,  justice,  truth. 
Domestic  awe,  night-rest,  and  neighbourhood. 
Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades. 
Degrees,  observances,  customs,  and  laws. 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries 

.341 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

And  yel  confusion  live! — Plagues  incident  to  meu, 
Your  potent  and  infectious  fevers  heap 
On  Athens,  ripe  for  stroke  !  thou  cold  sciatica, 
Cripple  our  senators,  that  their  limbs  may  halt 
As  lamely  as  their  manners  !  lust  and  liberty 
Creep  in  the  minds  and  marrows  of  our  youth ; 
That  'gainst  the  stream  of  virtue  they  may  strive. 
And  drown  themselves  in  riot !  itches,  blains, 
Sow  all  the  Athenian  bosoms ;  and  their  crop 
Be  general  leprosy  !  breath  infect  breath ; 
That  their  society,  as  their  friendship,  may 
Be  merely  poison  I ' ' 

Nothing  can  be  more  tremendous  than  this  imprecation, — nothing,  under  the  circumstances,  more 
true  and  natural. 

It  is  observed  by  Ulrici  that  the  misanthropy  of  Timon  is  as  idealized  as  his  philanthropy.  "  But 
as  that  idealized  philanthropy  was  his  life's  element,  the  equally  idealized  misanthropy  was  a  choke- 
damp  in  which  he  could  not  long  breathe  :  his  destroying  rage  against  himself,  and  all  human  kind, 
must  of  course  first  destroy  himself."  Considering  Timon's  artificial  love  of  mankind  and  his 
artificial  hate  as  the  results  of  the  same  ill-regulated  temperament,  we  can  appreciate  the  beautiful 
distinction  which  Shakspere  has  drawn  between  the  intellectual  cynicism  of  Apemantus  and  the 
passionate  misanthropy  of  Timon.  The  misanthropy  of  Timon  is  not  practical — it  wastes  itself  in 
generalizations  ;  the  misanthropy  of  Apemantus  is  not  imaginative — it  gratifies  itself  in  petty  insults 
and  unkindnesses : — 

"  Apem.  I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 

Tim.  I  hate  thee  worse. 

Apem.  Why? 

Tim.  Tliou  flatterst  misery. 

Apem.  I  flatter  not;  but  say,  thou  art  a  caitiflF. 

Tim.  Why  dost  thou  seek  me  out  ? 

Apem.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.  Always  a  villain's  office,  or  a  fool's. 
Dost  please  thyself  in  't  ? 

Apem.  Aye, 

Tim.  WhatI  a  knave  too?" 

The  soldier,  the  courtezan,  the  thief,  are  equally  included  in  Timon's  fiery  denunciations ;  but  they 
are  all  equally  gratified  in  essentials.  The  equanimity  with  which  the  fair  companions  of 
Alcibiades  submit  to  his  railings,  when  accompanied  by  his  gifts,  is  profoundly  satirical : — 

"  More  counsel  with  more  money,  bounteous  Timon." 
It  tells,  in  a  word,  the  impotence  of  his  misanthropy.     It  is  cherished  for  his  own  gratification 
alone.     Deeper  than  this  fancy  of  hatred  to  the  human  race  lies  the  romantic  feeling  with  which  he 
cherishes  images  of  tranquillity  beyond  this  agitating  life  : — 

"  Come  not  to  me  again  :  but  say  to  Athens, 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood ; 
Whom  once  a  day  witli  his  embossed  froth 
The  turbulent  surge  shall  cover." 

The  novelist  of  the  '  Palace  of  Pleasure'  thus  explains  Timon's  choice  of  "  his  everlasting 
mansion  :" — "  He  ordained  himself  to  be  interred  upon  the  sea-shore,  that  the  waves  and  surges 
might  beat  and  vex  his  dead  carcass."  Shakspere  has  made  Alcibiades  furnish  a  more  poetical 
solution  of  this  choice,  which  is  at  the  same  time  a  key  to  Timon's  general  character : — 

"  Though  thou  abhorr'dst  in  us  our  human  griefs, 

Scorn'dst  our  brain's  flow,  and  tliose  our  droplets  which 
From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave,  on  faults  forgiven." 


We  have  endeavoured  to  prove  that  the  Timon  of  Athens  is  not  wholly  a  work  of  Shakspere,  and 
thus  the  question  of  its  chronology  becomes  a  mixed  one.   The  older  play  which  we  believe  Shakspere 
must  have  remodelled,  belongs,  we  have  little  doubt,  to  the  period  when  our  poet  began  to  write  for 
342 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 

the  stage — a  period  when  the  public  ear  was  not  familiarized  to  the  flowing  harmony  of  his  own 
verse,  or  the  regular  cadences  of  Mai-lowe's  and  Greene's.  The  parts  of  Timon  which  unquestion- 
ably belong  to  Shakspere,  bear  the  marks  of  his  mature  hand.  We  are  aware  that  the  belief  which 
this  necessarily  implies,  that  Shakspere  was  an  alterer  of  plays  after  he  had  produced  some  of  his 
most  splendid  original  works,  is  opposed  to  the  prevailing  theory ;  but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  Shakspere's  vocation  as  a  poet  was  not  an  "  idle  trade"  opposed  to  his  proper  "  calling."* 
Whatever  his  duty  as  a  manager  would  lead  him  to  do,  that  he  would  naturally  do  without  those 
scruple  of  self-importance  which  belong  to  smaller  men.  The  author  of  Othello  might,  therefore, 
without  any  compromise  of  his  dignity,  become  the  remodeller  of  Timon.  Malone  places  Coriola- 
nus  and  Timon  in  1610.  Nothing  we  think  can  be  idler  than  his  reasons.  Having  attributed 
other  plays  to  former  years,  he  gives  these  two  plays  to  1610,  because  that  year  is  vacant ;  and  he 
thinks,  also,  that  Jidius  Caesar,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Timon,  and  Coriolanns,  were  written  in  suc- 
cession, because  the  subjects  are  found  in  North's  '  Plutarch.'  Chalmers  thinks  that  the  play 
was  written  in  1601,  during  the  existence  of  Essex's  rebellion.  He  says, — "  In  persuading  the 
return  of  Timon,  the  first  senator  observes : — 

■  So  soon  we  shall  drive  bark 


Of  Alcibiailes  the  approaches  wild. 

Who,  like  a  boar  too  savage,  doth  root  up 

His  country's  peace.' 

Here  is  as  exact  a  picture  of  Essex  as,  at  that  period,  it  was  fit  to  draw."  Such  attempts  to  deter- 
mine the  date  of  any  particular  play  of  our  poet  are,  for  the  most  part,  very  harmless  exhibitions 
of  pedantry ;  and  are  as  amusing,  to  the  inventors  of  them  at  least,  as  any  other  of  the  solemn  di- 
versions which  supply  the  place  of  the  riddles  of  childhood. 


Scenery  and  Costume. 


The  localities  which  are  represented  in  this  play  are  chiefly  of  such  Athenian  remains  as 
belong  to  the  historical  period  of  Alcibiades. 

It  may  be  sutficient  for  the  Costume  of  this  play  to  refer  our  readers  to  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  The  Elgin  Marbles,  in  both  cases,  furnish  the  principal  authorities.  The  age  of  Pericles, 
rich  in  art,  as  well  as  luxurious  and  magnificent,  was  the  period  which  immediately  preceded  that 
of  Timon  ;  and  it  would,  of  course,  suggest  the  employment,  in  the  representation  of  this  drama,  of 
great  scenic  splendour. 

*  "  I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade." — Pope. 


343 


[View  of  Alliens.] 


ACT  I. 


SCENE  I.— Athens.     A  Hall  in  Timoii's 
House. 

Enter  Poet,  Painter,   Jeweller,   Merchant,  and 
others,  at  several  doors. 

Poet.  Good  day,  sir. 

Pain.  I  am  glad  you  are  well. 

Poet.  I  have  not  seen  you  long  :  How  goes 
the  world  ? 

Pain.  It  wears,  sir,  as  it  grows. 

Poet.  Ay,  that 's  well  known  : 

But  what  particular  rarity?  what  strange. 
Which  manifold  record  not  matches?     See, 
Magic  of  bounty  !  all  these  spirits  thy  power 
Hath  conjur'd  to  attend.     I  know  the  merchant. 

Pain.  I    know    them    both ;     th'    other  's   a 
jeweller. 

Mer.  O,  'tis  a  worthy  lord ! 

Jeic.  Nay,  that 's  most  fix  'd 

Mer.  A  most  incomparable  man;  breath'd,' 
as  it  were, 

»  Breath'd.     When  Hamlet  says, 

"  It  is  tlie  breathing  time  of  day  with  me," 
he  refers  to  the  time  of  habitual  exercise,  by  which  liis  ani- 
mal strenfjtli  was  fitted  for  "  untirable  and  continuate  "  ex- 

TiiAOEniFs. — Vni,.  T.  2  Y 


To  an  untirable  and  continuate  goodness  : 
He  passes.* 

Jeiv.         I  have  a  jewel  here. 

Mer.  O,    pray,    let  's    see  't :    For   the  lord 

Timon,  sir  ? 
Jew.  If  he  will  touch  the  estimate  :  But,  for 

that — 
Poet.  '  When  we  for  recompense  have  prais'd 
the  vile, 
It  stains  the  glory  in  that  happy  verse 
Which  aptly  sings  the  good.''' 
Mer.  'Tis  a  good  form. 

[^Looking  at  the  jeicel. 
Jew.  And  rich  :  here  is  a  water,  look  you. 
Pain.  You  are  rapt,  sir,  in  some  work,  some 
dedication 
To  the  great  lord. 

Poet.  A  thing  slipp'd  idly  from  me. 

Our  poesy  is  as  a  gum,  which  oozes 


ertion.  The  analogy  between  this  and  the  liabitual  exercise 
of  "  goodness"  is  obvious. 

•  Repasses — he  excels — he  goes  beyond  common  virtues. 
In  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  we  have,  '•  Why  this  passes. 
Master  Ford." 

>>  The  poet  is  liere  supposed  to  be  reading  liis  own  per- 
formance. 

345 


Act  I.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  I. 


From  wlience  'tis  nourished  :  '   The  fire  i'  the 

flint 
Shows  not  till  it  be  struck  ;  our  gentle  flame 
Provokes  itself,  and,  like  the  current,  flies 
Each  bound  it  chafes.  ^     What  have  you  there  ? 

Pain,  A    picture,    sir. — When    comes    yoiu" 
book  forth  ? 

Poet.  Upon  the  heels  of  my  presentment,  sir. 
Let's  see  your  piece. 

Pain.  'Tis  a  good  piece. 

Poet.  So  'tis :  this  comes  oft"  well  and  excel- 
lent. 

Pain.  Indiff'erent. 

Poet.  Admirable :  How  this  grace 

Speaks  his  own  standing  !*=  what  a  mental  power 
This  eye  shoots  forth  !  how  big  imagination 
Moves  in  this  lip !  to  the  dumbness  of  the  gesture 
One  might  interpret. 

Pain.  It  is  a  pretty  mocking  of  the  life. 
Here  is  a  touch  :  Is'tgood? 

Poet.  I'll  say  of  it, 

It  tutors  nature  :  artificial  strife ** 
Lives  in  these  touches,  livelier  than  life. 

Enter  cei'tnin  Senators,  and  pass  over. 

Pain.  How  this  lord's  follow'd  ! 
Poet.  The  senators  of  Athens  : — Happy  men ! 
Pain.  Look,  more ! 

Poet.  You  see  this  confluence,  this  great  flood 
of  visitors. 
I  have,  in  this  rough  woi'k,  shap'd  out  a  man 

"  The  reading  of  the  original  is — 

"  Our  poesie  is  as  a  gowne  wliich  uses 
From  whence  'tis  nourisht:" 
Pope  clianged  tliis  to — 

"  Our  poesie  is  as  a  guyn  wliich  issues." 
The  reading  ooze?  is  that  of  Dr.  Jolmsdn.  Tieck  maintains 
tliat  the  passage  slionld  stand  as  in  tlie  original :  lie  says, 
"  The  act,  tlie  ilattery  of  tliis  poet  of  occasions,  which  is  useful 
to  tliose  wlio  pay  for  it.  The  expression  is  hard,  forced  and 
obscure,  but  yet  to  be  understood."  Wi;  cannot  see  how  the 
construction  of  the  sentence  can  support  this  interpretation, 
and  we  tlierefore  retain  the  reading  of  Pope  and  Jolinson. 

I*  This  passage  has  been  considered  difficult,  but  if  we 
receive  bound,  in  the  sense  of  boundary,  obstacle,  the  image 
is  tolerably  clear.  The  "  gentle  flame  "  of  poesy  which  pro- 
vokes itself,  runs  the  q\ncker  even  for  obstruction,  like  the 
current  which  flies  faster  after  it  has  chafed  the  obstacles  to 
its  e<|ual  flow. 

°  Monck  Mason  believes  that  the  passage  sliould  be  writ- 
ten— 

"  How  this  Grace 

Speaks  its  own  standing  ;" — ■ 
saxingthe  gure  alluded  to  was  a  representation,  of  one  of 
the  Graces.  Tlie  commentators  have  not  noticed  wh.it  ap- 
pears to  us  tolerably  olivious,  that  the  flattering  painter  had 
brought  with  him  a  portrait  of  Timon,  in  which  the  grace  of 
the  attitude  spoke  "  his  own  standing," — the  liabitual  cai-- 
riage  of  the  original . 

^  Artijicial  strife — the  contest  of  art  with  nature.  So  in 
the  Venns  and  Adonis — 

"  Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life. 
In  limning  out  a  well-propcu'tion'd  steed. 
His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife. 
As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed; 
So  did  this  horse  excel." 

346 


Whom  this  beneath  world  doth  embrace  and  hug 
With  amplest  entertainment :  My  free  drift 
Halts  not  particularly,  but  moves  itself 
In  a  wide  sea  of  wax  :"  no  levell'd  malice 
Infects  one  comma  in  the  course  I  hold ; 
But  flies  an  eagle  flight,  bold,  and  forth  on, 
Leaving  no  tract  behind. 

Pain.  How  shall  I  understand  you  ? 

Poet.  I'll  unbolt''  to  you. 

You  see  how  all  conditions,  how  all  minds, 
(As  well  of  glib  and  slippery  creatures,  as 
Of  grave  and  austere  quality,)  tender  down 
Their  services  to  lord  Timon  :  his  large  fortune, 
Upon  his  good  and  gracious  nature  hanging, 
Subdues  and  properties  to  his  love  and  tendance 
All  sorts  of  hearts ;  yea,  from   the  glass-fac'd 

flatterer 
To  Apemantus,  that  few  things  loves  better 
Than  to  abhor  himself :  even  he  drops  down 
The  knee  before  him,  and  returns  in  peace 
Most  rich  in  Timon's  nod. 

Pain.  I  saw  them  speak  together. 

Poet.  Sir,  I  have  upon  a  high  and  pleasant 
hill, 
Feign'd  Fortune  to  be  thron'd :  The  base  o'  the 

movint 
Is  rank'd  with  all  deserts,  all  kinds  of  natures, 
That  labour  on  the  bosom  of  this  sphere 
To  propagate  their  states  :  amongst  them  all. 
Whose  eyes  are  on  this  sovereign  lady  fix'd, 
One  do  I  personate  of  lord  Timon's  frame, 
Whom  Fortune  with  her  ivory  hand  wafts  to  her; 
Whose  present  grace  to  present  slaves  and  ser- 
vants 
Translates  his  rivals. 

Pain.  'Tis  conceiv'd  to  scope. 

This  throne,  this  Fortvme,  and  this  hill  methinks, 
With  one  man  beckon'd  from  the  rest  below, 
Bowing  his  head  against  the  steepy  mount 
To  climb  his  happiness,  would  be  well  express'd 
In  our  condition.  •= 

Poet.  Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me  on : 

All  those  which  were  his  fellows  but  of  late, 
(Some  better  than  his  value,)  on  the  moment 
Follow  his  strides,  his  lobbies  fill  with  tendance,' 
Rain  sacrificial  whispei'ings  in  his  ear, 
Make  sacred  even  his  stirrup,  and  through  him 
Drink  the  free  air.** 

Pain.  Ay,  marry,  what  of  these  ? 

*  An  allusion  to  the  ancient  practice  of  writing  upon  waxen 
tablets  with  a  style. 

I"  Unbiilt — unfold — explain. 

°  Condition  is  here  used  lor,  art.  The  painter  has  here 
formed  a  picture  in  his  mind  according  to  the  description  of 
the  poet,  and  he  would  say  that  it  was  a  subject  for  the  skill 
of  each  to  be  exercised  upon . 

*  Di'ink  the  free  air — live,  breathe  but  through  him. 


Act  I.] 


TIM  ON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNK    1. 


Poet.  When  Fortune,  in  her  shift  and  change 

of  mood, 
Spurns  down  her  late  belov'd,all  his  dependants. 
Which  labour'd  after  him  to  the  mountain's  top. 
Even  on  their  knees  and  hands,  let  him  slip  * 

down. 
Not  one  accompanying  his  declining  foot. 

Pain.  'Tis  common  : 
A  thousand  moral  paintings  I  can  show. 
That  shall  demonstrate    these   quick  blows  of 

fortune's 
More  pregnantly  than  words.     Yet  you  do  well, 
To  show  lord  Timon  that  mean  eyes  have  seen 
The  foot  above  the  head. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Timon,  attended ;  the 
Servant  0/ Ventidius  talking  with  hini.^ 
Tim.  Imprison'd  is  he,  say  you? 

Ven.  Serv.  Ay,  my  good  lord :  five  talents  is 
his  debt ; 
His  means  most  short,  his  creditors  most  strait : 
Your  honourable  letter  he  desires 
To  those  have  shut  him  up  ;  which  failing  to 

him. 
Periods  his  comfort. 

Tim.  Noble  Ventidius!  Well; 

I  am  not  of  that  feather,  to  shake  oiF 
My  friend  when  he  must  need  me.     I  do  know 

him 
A  gentleman  that  well  deserves  a  help. 
Which  he  shall  have  :  I'll  pay  the  debt  and  free 
him. 
Ven.  Serv.   Your  lordship  ever  binds  him. 
Tim.  Commend  me  to  him :  I  will  send  his 
ransom ; 
And,  being  enfranchis'd,  bid  him  come  to  me : — 
'Tis  not  enough  to  help  the  feeble  up, 
But  to  support  him  after. — Fare  you  well. 
Fen.  Serv.  All  happiness  to  your  honour. 

^Exit. 

Enter  an  old  Athenian. 

Old  Ath.  Lord  Timon,  hear  me  speak. 

Tim.  Freely,  good  father. 

Old  Ath.  Thou  hast  a  servant  named  Lucilius. 

Tim.  I  have  so  :  What  of  him  ? 

Old  Ath.  Most  noble  Timon,   call  the  man 

before  thee. 
Tim.  Attends  he  here,  or  no? — Lucilius! 

Enter  Lucilius. 
Liic.  Here,  at  your  lordship's  service. 

»  Slip;  in  the  original,  sit. 

^  The  ovi;;iual  sta^e  direction  is,  "  trumpets  sound,  enter 
Lord  Timon,  addressing  liimself  courteously  to  every  suitor" 


Old  Ath.  This  fellow  here,  lord  Timon,  this 
thy  creature. 
By  night  frequents  my  liouse.     I  am  a  man 
That  from  my  first  have  been  inclined  to  thrift ; 
And  my  estate  deserves  an  heir  more  rais'd 
Than  one  which  holds  a  trencher. 

Tim.  Well;  what  further? 

Old  Ath.  One  only  daughter  have  I,  no  kin 
else. 
On  whom  I  may  confer  what  I  have  got : 
The  maid  is  fair,  o'  the  youngest  for  a  bride, 
And  I  have  bred  her  at  my  dearest  cost, 
In  qualities  of  the  best.     This  man  of  thine 
Attempts  her  love :  I  prithee,  noble  lord, 
Join  with  me  to  forbid  him  her  resort ; 
Myself  have  spoke  in  vain. 

2'im.  The  man  is  honest. 

Old  Ath.  Therefore  he  will  be,  Timon  : 
His  honesty  rewards  him  in  itself,* 
It  must  not  bear  my  daughter. 

Tim.  Does  she  love  him  ? 

Old  Ath.  She  is  young,  and  apt : 
Our  own  precedent  passions  do  instruct  us 
What  levity 's  in  youth. 

Tim.   [7*0  Lucilius.]  Love  you  the  maid  ? 

Luc.  Ay,  my  good  lord,  and  she  accepts  of  it. 

Old  Ath.  If  in  her  marriage  my  consent  be 
missing, 
I  call  the  gods  to  witness,  I  will  choose 
Mine  heir  from  forth  the  beggars  of  the  world. 
And  dispossess  her  all. 

Tim.  How  shall  she  be  endow'd. 

If  she  be  mated  with  an  equal  husband  ? 

Old  Ath.  Three   talents,  on  the  ^^resent ;  in 
future,  all. 

Tim.  This  gentleman  of  mine  hath  serv'd  me 
long  ; 
To  build  his  fortune  I  would  strain  a  little, 
For  'tis  a  bond  in  men.    Give  him  thy  daughter : 
What  you  bestow,  in  him  I'll  counterpoise, 
And  make  him  weigh  with  her. 

Old  Ath.  Most  noble  lord. 

Pawn  me  to  this  your  honour,  she  is  his. 

Tim.  My  hand  to  thee;  mine  honour  on  my 
pi'omise. 

Luc.  Humbly  I  thank  your  loi'dship  :  Never 
may 
That  state  or  fortune  fall  into  my  keeping. 
Which  is  not  ow'd  to  you ! 

\_Exeunt  Lucilius  and  old  Athenian. 

«  Tlie  following  is  Coleridge's  explanation  of  this  passage  : 
— "  Tlie  meaning  of  the  first  line  the  poet  himself  explains, 
or  rather  nufolds,  in  the  second.  '  Tlie  man  is  honest !  ' — 
'  True; — and  for  that  very  cause,  and  with  no  additional  or 
extrinsic  motive,  he  will  tie  so.  No  man  can  be  justly  called 
honest,  who  is  not  so  for  honesty's  sake,  itself  including  its 
own  reward.'  " 

?A7 


I-] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SciiNE    I. 


Poet.  Vouchsafe   my  labour,   and   long  live 
your  lordship  ! 

Tim.  I  tliank  you ;  you  shall  hear  from  me 
anon  : 
Go  not  away. — What  have  you  there,  my  friend? 

Pain.  A  piece  of  painting,  which  I  do  beseech 
Your  lordship  to  accept. 

Tim.  Painting  is  welcome. 

The  painting  is  almost  the  natural  man  ; 
For  since  dishonoiu-  ti-afRcs  with  man's  nature. 
He  is  but  outside :  These  pencil'd  figures  are 
Even  such  as  they  give  out.     I  like  your  work  ; 
And  you  shall  find  I  like  it :  wait  attendance 
Till  you  hear  further  from  me. 

Pain.  The  gods  preserve  you ! 

Tim.  Well  fare  you,  gentlemen :    Give   me 
your  hand : 
We  must  needs  dine  together. — Sir,  your  jewel 
Hath  sufFer'd  under  praise. 

Jew.  What,  my  lord  ?  dispraise  ? 

Tim.  A  meer  satiety  of  commendations. 
If  I  shovild  pay  you  for't  as  'tis  extoU'd 
It  would  unclew  me  quite. 

Jetv.  My  lord,  'tis  rated 

As  those  which  sell  would  give  :  But  you  well 

know. 
Things  of  like  value,  differing  in  the  owners. 
Are  prized  by  their  masters  :  believe  't,  dear 

lord, 
You  mend  the  jewel  by  the  wearing  it. 

Tim.  Well  niock'd. 

Mer.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  he  speaks  the  com- 
mon tongue. 
Which  all  men  speak  with  him. 

Tim.  Look,  who  comes  here.     Will  you  be 
chid? 

Enter  Apemantus. 

Jew.  We  will  bear  with  your  lordship. 

Mer.  He  '11  spare  none. 

Tim.  Good    morrow   to    thee,    gentle    Ape- 
mantus ! 

Apem.  Till  I  be  gentle,  stay  thou  for  thy  good 
morrow ; 
When  thou  art  Timon's  dog,  and  these  knaves 
honest. 

Ti7n.  Why  dost  thou  call  them  knaves  ?  thou 
know'st  them  not. 

Apem.  Are  they  not  Athenians  ? 

Tim.  Yes. 

Apem.  Then  I  repent  not. 

Jew.  You  know  me,  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Thou  know'st  I  do  ;  I  called  thee  bv 
thy  name. 

Tim.  Thou  art  proud,  Apemantus. 
348 


Apem.  Of  nothing  so  much  as  that  I  am  not 
like  Timon. 

Tim.  Whither  art  going  ? 

Apem.  To  knock  out  an  honest  Athenian's 
brains. 

Tim.  That's  a  deed  thou  It  die  for. 

Apem.  Right,  if  doing  nothing  be  death  by 
the  law. 

Tim.  How  likest  thou  this  picture,  Apeman- 
tus? 

Apem.  The  best,  for  the  innocence. 

Tim.  Wrought  he  not  well  that  painted  it? 

Apem.  He  wrought  better  that  made  the 
painter  ;  and  yet  he's  but  a  filthy  piece  of  work. 

Pain.  You  are  a  dog. 

Apem.  Thy  mother's  of  my  generation  : 
What 's  she,  if  I  be  a  dog  ? 

Tim.  Wilt  dine  with  me,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  No ;  I  eat  not  lords. 

Tim.  An  thou  should'st,  thou'dst  anger  ladies. 

Apem,  O,  they  eat  lords ;  so  they  come  by 
great  bellies. 

Tim.  That's  a  lascivious  apprehension. 

Apem.  So  thou  apprehend'st  it :  Take  it  for 
thy  labour. 

Tim.  How  dost  thou  like   this  jewel,  Ape- 
mantus ? 

Apem.  Not  so  well  as  plain-dealing,  which 
will  not  cost  a  man  a  doit. 

Tim.  What  dost  thou  think  'tis  worth? 

Apem.  Not  worth  my  thinking. — How  now, 
poet  ? 

Poet.  How  now,  philosopher  ? 

Apem.  Thou  liest. 

Poet.  Art  not  one? 

Apem.  Yes. 

Poet.  Then  I  lie  not. 

Apem.  Art  not  a  poet  ? 

Poet.  Yes. 

Apem.  Then  thou  liest :  look  in  thy  last  work, 
where  thou  hast  feign'd  him  a  worthy  fellow. 

Poet.  That 's  not  feign'd,  he  is  so. 

Apem.  Yes,  he  is  worthy  of  thee,  and  to  pay 
thee  for  thy  labour  :  He  that  loves  to  be  flattered 
is  worthy  o'  the  flatterer.  Heavens,  that  I  were 
a  lord ! 

Tim.  What  would'st  do  then,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Even  as  Apemantus  does  now,  hate  a 
lord  with  my  heart. 

Tim.  What,  thyself? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Wherefore? 

Apem.  That  I  had  no  angry  wit  to  be  a  lord. 
— Art  not  thou  a  merchant? 

Mer.  Ay,  Apemantus. 


Act  I.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SOKNE    II. 


Apem.  Traffic  confound  thee,  if  the  gods  will 
not! 

Mer.  If  ti-affic  do  it,  the  gods  do  it. 

Apem.  Traffic's  thy  god,  and  thy  god  con- 
found thee ! 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  a  Servant. 

Tim.  Wliat  trumpet's  that  ? 
Serv.  'Tis  Alcibiades,  and  some  twenty  horse. 
All  of  com^janionship. 

Tim.  Pray  entertain  them ;  give  them  guide 

to  us. —        [^Exeunt  some  Attendants. 

You  must  needs  dine  with  me : — Go  not  you 

hence 
Till   I   have  thank'd  J^ovi;  and,  when  dinner's 

done. 
Show  me  this  piece. — I  am  joyful  of  your  sights. 

Enter  Alcibiades,  with  his  company. 

Most  welcome,  sir  !  [.They  salute. 

Apem.  So,  so ;  there  ! — 

Aches  contract  and  starve  your  supple  joints! — 
That  there  should  be  small  love  'mongst  these 

sweet  knaves, 
And  all  this  court'sy !    The  strain  of  man's  bred 

out 
Into  baboon  and  monkey.  " 

Alcib.  Sir,  you  have  sav'd  my  longing,  and  I 
feed 
Most  hungerly  on  your  sight. 

Tim.  Right  welcome,  sir. 

Ere  we  depart,  we'll  share  a  bounteous  time 
In  different  pleasures.     Pray  you,  let  us  in. 

[^Exeunt  all  but  Apemantus. 

Enter  Two  Lords. 

1  Lord.  What  time  a  day  is't,  Apemantus? 
Apem.  Time  to  be  honest. 

1  Lord.  That  time  serves  still. 

Apem.  The   most   accursed   thou    that    still 
omit'st  it. 

2  Lord.  Thou  art  going  to  lord  Timon's  feast. 
Apem.  Ay;  to  see  meat  fill  knaves,  and  wine 

heat  fools. 

2  Lord.  Fare  thee  well,  fare  thee  well. 

Apem.  Thou  art  a  fool  to  bid  me  farewell  twice. 

2  Lord.  Why,  Apemantus? 

Apem,.  Should'st  have  kept  one  to  thyself,  for 
I  mean  to  give  thee  none. 

1  Lord.  Hang  thyself. 

Apem.  No,  I  will  do  nothing  at  thy  bidding ; 
make  thy  requests  to  thy  friend. 


•  This  is  printed  as  prose  in  the  original.  (See  Introductory 
Notice.) 


2  Lord.  Away,  unpcaceable  dog,  or  I'll  spurn 
thee  hence. 

Apem.  I  will  fly,  like  a  dog,  the  heels  of  the 
ass.  {Exit. 

1  Lord.  He's  opposite  to  humanity.     Come, 

shall  we  in. 
And  taste  lord  Timon's  bounty?  he  outgoes 
The  very  heart  of  kindness. 

2  Lord.  He  pours  it  out;  Plutus,  the  god  of 

gold, 
Is  but  his  steward  :  no  meed,  but  he  repays 
Sevenfold  above  itself;  no  gift  to  him, 
But  breeds  the  giver  a  return  exceeding 
All  use  of  quittance. 

1  Lord.  The  noblest  mind  he  carries, 
That  ever  govern'd  man. 

2  Lord.  Long  may  he  live  in  fortunes  !    Shall 

we  in  ? 
1  L^ord.  I'll  keep  you  company.         \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — The  same.     A  Room  of  State  in 
Timon's  House. 

Hautboys  jjlayiny  loud  music.  A  great  banquet 
served  in;  Flavius  a7id  others  attending  ;  then 
enter  Timon,  Alcibiades,  Lucius,  Lucullus, 
Sempronius,  and  other  Athenian  Senators, 
with  Ventidius,  a7id  Attendants.  Then  comes, 
dropping  after  all,  Apemantus,  discontentedly.'^ 

Ven.  Most  honour'd  Timon, 
It  hath  pleas'd  the  gods  to  remember  my  father's 

age, 
And  call  him  to  long  peace.  *• 
He  is  gone  happy,  and  has  left  me  rich : 
Then,  as  in  grateful  virtue  I  am  bound 
To  your  free  heart,  I  do  return  those  talents, 
Doubled,  with  thanks,  and  service,  from  whose 

help 
I  deriv'd  liberty. 

Tim.  O,  by  no  means. 

Honest  Ventidius  :  you  mistake  my  love  ; 
I  gave  it  freely  ever;  and  there's  none 
Can  truly  say  he  gives,  if  he  receives  : 
If  our  betters  play  at  that  game,  we  must  not  dare 
To  imitate  them  :    Faults  that  are  rich,  are  fair. 
Ven.  A  noble  spirit. 

[They  all  stand  ceremoniously  looking 
on  Timon.] 

»  The  orii,'inal  stap[e  direction  is  curious:  "Then  comes, 
dropping  after  all,  Apemantus  discontentedly,  lilie  Itimsetf." 

^  This  is  one  of  the  many  instances  in  which  we  adhere  to 
the  metrical  arrangement  of  the  original,  discarding  the  "  re- 
gulation "  of  Steevens.  It  would  be  tedious  to  point  out  all 
these  passages  as  they  occur,  but  our  readers  when  the\'  lind 
a  dejiartiire  from  the  arrangement  of  the  ordinary  text,  may 
be  assured  that  we  have  ourselves  made  no  capricious  change 
of  the  ancient  copy.  We  have  explained  the  necessity  for  a 
ireneral  adherence  to  this  copy  in  tlie  Introductory  Notice. 

349 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  II. 


Tim.  Nay,  my  lords,  ceremony  was  but  de- 
vis'd  at  first 
To  set  a  gloss  on  faint  deeds,  hollow  welcomes, 
Recanting  goodness,  sorry  ere  'tis  shown  ; 
But  where  there  is  true  friendship,  there  needs 

none. 
Pray  sit;    more   welcome  are  ye  to  my   for- 
tunes. 
Than  my  fortunes  to  me.  [_They  sit. 

1  Lord.  ]\fy  lord,  we  always  have  confess'd  it. 
Apem.  Ho,  ho,  confess'd  it!  hang'd  it,  have 

you  not? 
Tim.  O,  Apemantus! — you  are  welcome. 
Apem.  No,  you  shall  not  make  me  welcome : 
I  come  to  have  thee  thi'ust  me  out  of  doors. 
Tim.  Fye,  thou'rt  a  churl;  you  have  got  a 
humour  there 
Does  not  become  a  man,  'tis  much  to  blame : — 
They  say,  my  lords,  ira  furor  brevis  est, 
But  yond'  man's  ver}-  angry.* 
Go,  let  him  have  a  table  by  himself; 
For  he  does  neither  affect  company, 
Nor  is  he  fit  for  "t,  indeed. 

Apem.  Let  me  stay  at  thine  apperil,''  Timon; 
I  come  to  observe  ;   I  give  thee  warning  on't. 

llm.  I  take  no  heed  of  thee;  thou  art  an 
Athenian  ;  therefore  welcome  :  I  myself  would 
have  no  power  :  prithee,  let  my  meat  make  thee 
silent. 

Apem.  I  scorn  thy  meat ;   'twould  choke  me, 
for  I  should 
Ne'er  flatter  thee. — O  you  gods !  what  a  number 
Of  men  eat  Timon,  and  he  sees  them  not! 
It  grieves  me  to  see  so  many  dip  their  meat 
In  one  man's  blood;  and  all  the  madness  is, 
He  cheers  them  up  too. 

I  wonder  men  dare  trust  themselves  with  men  : 
Methinks,    they    should    invite    them    without 

knives ;  •= 
Good  for  their  meat,  and  safer  for  their  lives. 
There's  much  example  for't;  the  fellow,  that 
Sits  next  him  now,  parts  bread  with  him,  and 

pledges 
The  breath  of  him  in  a  divided  draught, 
Is  the  readiest  man  to   kill  him :  it  has  been 

prov'd. 
If  I  were  a  huge  man,  I  should  fear  to  drink  at 
meals ; 


•  Very  angry.  So  the  original ;  Rowe  changed  very  to 
ever,  marking  an  antitliesis  witli  the  Latin  sentence.  The 
introd\iction  of  a  scrap  of  Latin  is  not  at  all  in  Shakspere's 
manner,  uor  indeed  is  any  part  of  the  speecli. 

■•  Apperil.  The  word  repeatedly  occurs  iu  Ben  Jonson,  as 
in  the  '  Tale  of  a  Tub  :' — 

"As  you  will  answer  it  at  your  apperil." 

•=  Every  guest  in  our  author's  time  brought  his  own  knife. 

350 


Lest  they  should  spy  my  windpipe's  dangerous 

notes : 
Great  men  should  drink  with  harness  on  their 
throats. 
Tim.  My  lord,  in  heart ;  and  let  the  health  go 

roiuid. 
2  Lord.  Let  it  flow  this  way,  my  good  lord. 
Apem.  Flow  this  way  !    A  brave  fellow ! — he 
keeps  his  tides  well. 
Those  healths  will  make  thee,  and  thy  state,  look 

ill,  Timon  :  * 
Here's  that,  which  is  too  weak  to  be  a  sinner. 
Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire: 
This,  and  my  food,  are  equals ;  there's  no  odds. 
Feasts  are  too  provid  to  give  thanks  to  the  gods. 

Apemantus's  Grace. 

Immortal  gods,  I  crave  no  pelf; 

I  pray  for  no  man,  but  myself : 

Grant  I  maj^  never  prove  so  fond, 

To  trust  man  on  his  oath  or  bond ; 

Or  a  harlot,  for  her  Aveeping ; 

Or  a  dog,  that  seems  a  sleeping  ; 

Or  a  keeper  with  my  freedom  ; 

Or  my  friends,  if  I  should  need  'em. 

Amen.     So  fall  to"t : 

Rich  men  sin,  and  I  eat  root. 

[^Eats  and  drinks. 
Much  good  dich  thy  good  heart,  Apemantus ! 
Tim.  Captain  Alcibiades,  your  heart's  in  the 

field  now. 
Alcih.  My  heart  is  ever  at  your  service,  my 
lord. 

Tim.  You  had  rather  be  at  a  breakfast  of  ene- 
mies, than  a  dinner  of  friends. 

Alcib.  So  they  were  bleeding-new,  my  lord, 
there's  no  meat  like  them;  I  could  wish  my  best 
friend  at  such  a  feast. 

Apem.  'Would  all  those  flatterers  were  thine 
enemies  then  ;  that  then  thou  might'st  kill  'em, 
and  bid  me  to  'em. 

1  L^jord.  Might  we  but  have  that  happiness, 
my  lord,  that  you  would  once  use  our  hearts, 
whereby  we  might  express  some  part  of  our 
zeals,  we  should  think  ourselves  for  ever  perfect. 
Tim.  O,  no  doubt,  my  good  friends,  but  the 
gods  themselves  have  provided  that  I  shall  have 
much  help  from  you :  How  had  you  been  my 
friends  else  ?  why  have  you  that  charitable  title 
from  thousands,  did  not  you  chiefly  belong  to 
my  heart  ?  I  have  told  more  of  you  to  myself, 
than  you  can  with  modesty  speak  in  your  own 


»  The  word  Timon  has  in  modern  editions  been  transposed 
into  the  previous  line. 


Act  I.] 


TTMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCF.NF.    11. 


behalf;  and  thus  far  I  confirm  you.  O,  you 
gods,  think  I,  what  need  we  have  any  friends,  if 
we  should  ne'er  have  need  of  them  ?  they  were 
the  most  needless  creatures  living  should  we 
ne'er  have  use  for  them:  and  would  most  re- 
semble sweet  insti-uments  hung  up  in  cases,  that 
keep  their  sounds  to  themselves.  Why,  I  have 
often  wished  myself  poorer,  that  I  miglit  come 
nearer  to  you.  We  are  born  to  do  benefits :  and 
what  better  or  propeller  can  we  call  our  own 
than  the  riches  of  our  friends?  O,  what  a  pre- 
ciotis  comfort  'tis  to  have  so  many  like  brothers, 
commanding  one  another's  fortunes  !  O  joy, 
e'en  made  away  ere  it  can  be  born  !  Mine  eyes 
cannot  hold  out  water,  methinks;  to  forget  their 
faults,  I  drink  to  you. 

Jpem.  Thou  weepest  to  make  them   drink, 
Timon. 

2  Lord.  Joy  had  the  like  conception  in  our 

eyes, 
And,  at  that  instant,  like  a  babe  sprung  up. 
Apem.  Ho,  ho  !     I  laugh  to  think  that  babe  a 
bastard. 

3  Lord.  I  promise  you,  my  lord,  you  niovd 

me  much. 
Apem.  Much!"  [^Tucket  sounded. 

Tim.  What  means  that  trump? — How  now? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Se7-v.  Please  you,  my  lord,  there  are  certain 
ladies  most  desirous  of  admittance. 

Tim.  Ladies?  What  are  their  wills? 

Serv.  There  comes  with  them  a  forerunner, 
my  loi'd,  which  bears  that  office  to  signify  their 
pleasures. 

Tim.  I  pray,  let  them  be  admitted. 

Enter  Cupid. 

Cup.  Hail  to  thee,  worthy  Timon ; — and  to  all 
That  of  his  bounties  taste  ! — the  five  best  senses 
Acknowledge    thee    their   patron;    and    come 

freely 
To  gratulate  thy  plenteous  bosom : 
The  ear,  taste,  touch,  smell,  pleas'd  from  thy 

table  rise  ; 
They  only  now  come  but  to  feast  thine  eyes. '' 
Tim.  They  are  welcome  all ;  let  them  have 

kind  admittance. 
Music,  make  their  welcome.  \^Exit  Cupid. 

•  Much — an  ironical  and  eonteraptuous  expression. 

^  The  reading  oflhe  original  is  : — 
"  There  taste,  touch  all,  pleas'd  from  thy  table  rise." 
The  emendation  of  the  text  is  by  Warburton,  and  it  is  not 
only  ingenious,  but  satisfactory.     Four  of  the  five  best  senses 
rise  from  Timon's  table  ;  the  mask  of  ladies  comes  to  gratify 
the  fifth. 


1  Lord.  You  see,  my  lord,  how  ample  y'are 
belov'd. 

Music.  Re-enter  Cupid,  ivifJi  a  mosque  of  La- 
dies as  Amazons,  ivith  lutes  in  their  hands, 
dancing  and  playing. 

Apem.  Hey  day,  what  a  sweep  of  vanity  comes 

this  way  ! 
They  dance  !  they  are  mad  women. 
Like  madness  is  the  glory  of  this  life, 
As  this  pomp  shows  to  a  little  oil  and  root. 
We  make  ourselves  fools  to  disport  ourselves  ; 
And  spend  our  flatteries,  to  drink  those  men, 
Upon  whose  age  we  void  it  up  again, 
With  poisonous  spite  and  envy. 
Who  lives  that's  not  depraved,  or  depraves  ? 
Who   dies,   that  bears  not  one  spurn  to  their 

graves 
Of  their  friends'  gift  ? 

I  shoiUd  fear  those  that  dance  before  me  now, 
Would  one  day  stamp  upon  me:    It  has  been 

done  : 
Men  shut  their  doors  against  a  setting  sun. 

The  Lords  rise  from  table,  with  much  adoriiig  of 
Timon  ;  and,  to  show  their  loves,  each  singles 
out  an  Amazon,  and  all  dance,  men  with  wo- 
men, a  lofty  strain  or  two  to  the  hautboys,  and 
cease. ^ 

Tim.   You   have   done   our   pleasures   much 
grace,  fair  ladies. 
Set  a  fair  fashion  on  our  entertainment, 
Which  was  not  half  so  beautiful  and  kind  ; 
You  have  added  worth  unto  't,  and  lustre,  ^ 
And  entertain'd  me  with  mine  own  device  ; 
I  am  to  thank  you  for  it. 

1  Lady  My  lord,  you  take  us  even  at  the  best. 

Apem.  'Faith,    for  the   worst   is  filthy;  and 
would  not  hold  taking,  I  doubt  me. 

Tim.  Ladies,  there  is  an  idle  banquet 
Attends  you  :  please  you  to  dispose  yourselves. 

All  Lad.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 

\_Exeunt  Cupid  and  Ladies. 

T'im.  Flavins! 

Flav.  My  lord. 

21m.  The  little  casket  bring  me  hither. 

Flav.  Yes,  my  lord. — More  jewels  yet ! 
There  is  no  crossing  him  in  his  humour;   \_Aside. 
Else  I  should  tell  him,— Well,— i'faith,  I  should. 
When  all's  spent,  he'd  be  cross'd  then,  an  he 
coiUd. 


»  This  is  the  ancient  stage  direction. 

''  Lustre.  The  ordinary  reading  is  lively  lustre,  which  epi- 
thet was  derived  from  the  second  folio.  We  follow  the 
uriijinal  copy. 

351 


Act  I.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ScKNE    II. 


Tis  pity  bounty    ad  not  eyes  behind  ; 
That  man  might  ne'er  be  wretched  for  his  mind. 
\_Exit,  and  returns  with  the  casket. 

1  Lord.  Where  be  our  men  ? 
Serv.  Here,  my  lord,  in  readiness. 

2  Lord.  Our  horses. 

Tim.  O  my  friends, 

I  have  one  word  to  say  to  you  ; — Look  you,  my 

good  lord, 
I  must  entreat  you,  honour  me  so  much, 
As  to  advance  this  jewel ;  accept  it,  and  wear  it. 
Kind  my  lord. 

1  Lord.  I  am  so  far  already  in  your  gifts, — 
All.  So  are  we  all. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv,  My  lord,  there  are  certain  nobles  of  the 
senate 
Newly  alighted,  and  come  to  visit  you. 
Tim.  They  are  fairly  welcome. 
Flav.  I  beseech  your  honour, 

Vouchsafe  me  a  word;  it  does  concern  you  near. 
Tim.  Near?  why  then  another  time  I'll  hear 
thee  : 
I  prithee,  let's  be  provided   to  show  them  enter- 
tainment. 
Flav.  I  scarce  know  how. 

\_Aside. 
Enter  another  Servant. 

2  Serv.    May  it  please  your  honoiu*,  the  lord 

Lucius, 
Out  of  his  free  love,  hath  presented  to  you 
Four  milk-white  horses,  trapp'd  in  silver. 

Tim.  I  shall  accept  them  fairly  :  let  the  pre- 
sents 

Enter  a  third  Servant. 

Be  worthily  entertain'd. — How  now,  what  news? 

3  Serv.  Please  you,  my  lord,  that  honourable 
gentleman,  lord  Lucullus,  entreats  your  com- 
pany to-morrow  to  hunt  with  him ;  and  has  sent 
your  honour  two  brace  of  greyhounds. 

Tim.  I'll  himt  with  him  ;  and  let  them  be  re- 

ceiv'd. 
Not  without  fair  reward. 

Flav.   [^Aside-I  What  will  this  come  to  ? 

He  commands  us  to  provide,  and   give   great 

gifts, 
And  all  out  of  an  empty  coffer. — 
Nor  will  he  know  his  purse  ;  or  yield  me  this. 
To  show  him  what  a  beggar  his  heart  is, 
Being  of  no  power  to  make  his  wishes  good ; 
His  promises  fly  so  beyond  his  state. 
That  what  he  speaks  is  all  in  debt,  he  owes  for 

every  word ; 

352 


He  is  so  kind,  that  he  now  pays  interest  for  't ; 
His  lands  put  to  their  books.     Well,  'woidd  I 

were 
Gently  put  out  of  office,  before  I  were  forc'd 

out! 
Happier  is  he  that  has  no  friend  to  feed. 
Than  such  that  do  even  enemies  exceed. 
I  bleed  inwardly  for  my  lord.  \_Exit. 

Tim.  You  do  yourselves 

Much  wrong,  you  bate  too  much  of  your  own 

merits  : 
Here,  my  lord,  a  trifle  of  our  love. 

2  Lord.  With  more  than  common  thanks  I 

will  receive  it. 

3  Lord.  O,  he  is  the  very  soul  of  bounty  I 
Tim.    And  now  I  remember,  my  lord,  you 

gave 
Good  words  the  other  day  of  a  bay  courser 
I  rode  on  :  it  is  yours,  because  you  lik'd  it ! 

2  Lord.  O,  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my 
lord,  in  that. 

Tim.  You  may  take  my  word,  my  lord  ;    I 
know,  no  man 
Can  justly  praise,  but  what  he  does  affect : 
I  weigh  my  friend's  affection  with  mine  own ; 
I'll  tell  you  true.     I'll  call  to  you.'' 

All  Lords.  None  so  welcome. 

Tim.  I  take  all  and  your  several  visitations 
So  kind  to  heart,  'tis  not  enough  to  give ; 
Methinks,  I  could  deal  kingdoms  to  my  friends. 
And  ne'er  be  weary. — Alcibiades, 
Thou  art  a  soldier,  therefore  seldom  rich ; 
It  comes  in  charity  to  thee  :  for  all  thy  living 
Is  'mongst  the  dead ;    and  all  the  lands  thou 

hast 
Lie  in  a  pitch'd  field. 

Alcih.  Ay,  defil'd  land,  my  lord. 

1  Lord.  We  are  so  virtuously  bound, — 
2'im.  And  so 

Am  I  to  you. 

2  Lord.         So  infinitely  endear" d — 
21m.  All  to  you. — Lights,  more  lights. 

1  Lord.  The  best  of  happiness, 

Honour    and    fortunes,   keep    with   you,    lord 
Timon  ! 
Tim.  Ready  for  his  friends. 

[^Exeimt  Alcibiades,  Lords,  Sj-c. 
Ai)em.  What  a  coil's  here  ! 

Serving  of  becks,  and  jutting  out  of  bums  I 
I  doubt  whether  their  legs  be  worth  the  sums 
That   are  given  for    'em.     Friendship's  full  of 
dregs : 


>  The  modern  reading  is,  "  I'll  call  on  yon."    We  iiave  no 
diml>t  that  the  to  you  was  tlie  idiomatic  phiase. 


Act  I.j 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ScKNK    II. 


Methinks,  false  hearts  should  never  have  sound 

legs. 
Thus  honest  fools  lay  out  their  wealth  on  couit'- 

sies. 
Tim.    Now,    Apemantus,   if   thou  wert   not 

sullen, 
I  would  be  good  to  thee. 

Jpejn.  No,  I'll  nothing:  for  if  I  should  be 
brib'd  too,  there  would  be  none  left  to  rail  upon 
thee;  and  then  thou  wouldst  sin  the  faster. 
Thou  giv'st  so  long,  Timon,   I   fear  me,  thou 


wilt  give  away  thyself  in  paper  shortly  : "   What 
need  these  feasts,  pomps,  and  vain  glories? 

2wi.  Nay,  an  you  begin  to  rail  on  society 
once,  I  am  sworn  not  to  give  regard  to  you. 
Farewell ;  and  come  with  better  music.     \_Exit. 

Apem.  So ;  —  Thou'lt  not  hear  me  now, — 
thou  shalt  not  then.     I'll  lock  thy  heaven  from 

thee. 
O,  that  men's  ears  should  be 
To  counsel  deaf,  but  not  to  flattery  !  [^ExU. 

»  Be  niin'tl  by  the  securities  you  give. 


[Ancient  Triclinium.] 


TllAOF.MES. — Vor..  I. 


353 


[Rake's  Levee.  J 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  ACT  L 


'  Scene  I. — "  Follow  his  strides,  his  lobbies  Jill 
with  tendance." 

In  considering  the  character  of  Timon  in  our  In- 
troductory Notice,  we  have  referred  to  Mr.  Charles 
Lamb's  parallel  between  Shakspere  and  Hogarth. 
We  here  reprint  the  passage,  particularly  as  it 
affords  us  an  occasion  of  introducing  a  miniature 
copy  of  the  scene  in  the 'Rake's  Progress,'  to  which 
Mr.  Lamb  alludes. 

"  One  of  the  earliest  and  noblest  enjoyments  I  had 
when  a  boy  was  in  the  contemplation  of  those  capi- 
tal prints  by  Hogarth, '  The  Harlot's  and  Rake's 
Progresses,'  which,  along  with  some  others,  hung 
upon  the  walls  of  a  great  hall  in  an  old-fashioned 

house  in shire,  and  seemed  the  solitary  tenants 

(with  myself)  of  that  antiquated  and  life-deserted 
apartment. 

"  Recollection  of  the  manner  in  which  those  prints 
used  to  affect  me  has  often  made  me  wonder,  when 
I  have  heard  Hogarth  described  as  a  mere  comic 
painter,  as  one  whose  chief  ambition  was  to  7-aise  a 
lauffh.  To  deny  that  there  are  througliout  the 
prints  which  I  have  mentioned  circumstances  in- 
troduced of  a  laughable  tendency,  would  be  to  run 
354 


counter  to  the  common  notions  of  mankind ;  but 
to  suppose  that  in  their  ruling  character  they  ap- 
peal chiefly  to  the  risible  faculty,  and  not  first  and 
foremost  to  the  very  heart  of  man,  its  best  and  most 
serious  feelings,  would  be  to  mistake  no  less  grossly 
their  aim  and  purpose.  A  set  of  severer  satires,  (for 
they  are  not  so  much  comedies,  which  they  have 
been  likened  to,  as  they  are  strong  and  masculine 
satires,)  less  m.ingled  with  anything  of  mere  fun, 
were  never  written  upon  paper,  or  graven  upon 
copper.  They  resemble  Juvenal,  or  the  satiric 
touches  in  Timon  of  Athens. 

"  I  was  pleased  with  thereplyof  a  gentleman,  who, 
being  asked  which  book  he  esteemed  most  in  his 
library,  answered,  'Shakspere:'  being  asked  which 
he  esteemed  the  next  best,  replied,  '  Hogarth.' 
His  graphic  representations  are  indeed  books:  they 
have  the  teeming,  fruitful,  suggestive  meaning  of 
words.  Other's  pictures  we  look  at, — his  prints  we 
read. 

"  In  pursuance  of  this  parallel,  I  have  sometimes 
entertained  myself  with  comparing  the  Timon  of 
Athens  of  Shakspere  (which  I  have  just  mentioned) 
and  Hogarth's  '  Rake's  Progress  '  together.  The 
story,  the  moral,  in  both  is  nearly  the  same.    The 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  ACT  I, 


wild  course  of  riot  and  extravagance,  ending  in  the 
one  with  driving  the  Prodigal  from  the  society  of 
men  into  the  solitude  of  the  deserts,  and  in  the  other 
with  conducting  the  Rake  through  his  several  stages 
of  dissipation  into  the  still  more  complete  desola- 
tions of  the  mad-house,  in  the  play  and  in  the  pic- 
ture are  described  with  almost  equal  force  and 
nature.  The  '  Levee  of  the  Rake,'  which  forms  the 
subject  of  the  second  plate  in  the  series,  is  almost 
a  transcript  of  Timon's  Levee  in  the  opening  scene 
of  that  play.  We  find  a  dedicating  poet,  and  otlier 
similar  characters,  in  both.    The  concluding  scene 


in  the  '  Rake's  Progress '  is  perhaps  superior  to  the 
last  scenes  of  Timon." 

This  delightful  writer  has  not  observed  that   in 
another  of  1 1  ogarth's  admirable  transcripts  of  human 
life,  '  The  Marriage  A-la-Mode,'  the  painter  hasalso 
exhibited  an  idea  which  is  found  in  the  Timon  of 
Athens — the  faithful  steward  vainly  endeavouring 
to  present  a  warning  of  the  approach  of  debt  and 
dishonour  in  Lis  neglected  accounts  : — 
"  O  my  good  lord! 
At  many  times  I  brought  in  my  accouuta, 
Laid  them  before  you;  you  would  throw  tlicm  olT." 


[Marriage  a  la-Mode.] 


355 


f-T    •~ir-.J,,. 


[Atlifus,  from  the  I'nyx.] 


ACT  IL 


SCENE  I. — Athens.     A  Room  in  a  Senator's 
House. 

Enter  a  Senator,  with  papers  in  his  hand. 
Sen.  And  late,  five  thousand  : "  toVarro,  and 

to  Isidore, 
He   owes  nine  thousand ;    besides  my  former 

sum, 
Which   makes  it    five    and   twenty. —  Still   in 

motion 
Of  raging  waste  ?     It  cannot  hold  ;  it  will  not. 
If  I  want  gold,  steal  but  a  beggar's  dog 
And  give  it  Timon,  why,  the  dog  coins  gold  : 
If  I  would  sell  my  horse,  and  buy  twenty  more 
Better  than  he,  why,  give  my  horse  to  Timon, 
Ask  nothing,  give  it  him,  it  foals  me,  straight,  * 
And  able  horses  :  No  porter  at  his  gate  ; 

*  This  is  ordinarily  pointed  thus : — 

"  And  late,  five  thousand  to  Varro;  and  to  Isidore 
He  owes  nine  thousand." 
We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original.     It  appears  to  us 
that  the  senator  is  recapitulating  what  Timon  owes  himself — 
"  and  late,  five  thousand" — "  besides  my  former  sum,  which 
makes  it  flve-and-twenty."      The  mention  of  what  Timou 
owes  to  Varro  and  Isidore  is  parenthetical. 
''  Straight — immediately. 

356 


But  rather  one  that  smiles,  and  still  invites 
All  that  pass  by. "     It  cannot  hold  ;  no  reason 
Can  sound**  his  state  in  safety.     Caphis,  hoa ! 
Caphis,  I  say  I 

Enter  Caphis. 
Caph.         Here,  sir :  What  is  your  pleasure  ? 
Sen.  Get  on  your  cloak,  and  haste  you  to  lord 
Timon ; 
Importune  him  for  my  monies ;  be  not  ceas'd 
With  slight  denial ;  nor  then  silenc'd,  when — 
'  Commend  me  to  your  master' — and  the  cap 
Plays  in  the  right  hand,  thus : — but  tell  him, 

sirrah,  ^ 
My  uses  cry  to  me,  I  must  serve  my  turn 
Out  of  mine  own  ;  his  days  and  times  are  past. 
And  my  reliances  on  his  fracted  dates 


"  The  porter  at  a  great  man's  gate  was  proverbially  a 
repulsive  person.  The  porter  at  Kenilworth,  according  to 
Laneluira's  description,  was  "  tall  of  person,  big  of  limb, 
and  stern  of  countenance." 

^  Sound.  This  is  ordinarily  printed  ^«nd.  Tlio  origin.al  is 
clearly  sound;  and  the  meaning  appears  to  be,  that  no  reason 
which  fathoms  Timon's  state  can  find  it  safe. 

«  Sirrah  is  not  in  tlie  original  copy.  It  was  added  by  the 
editor  of  the  second  folio. 


AOT   11.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNF    II. 


Have  smit  my  credit :  I  love,  and  honoiu-  him  ; 
But  must  not  breali  my  back,  to  heal  his  finger : 
Immediate  are  my  needs  ;  and  my  relief 
Must  not  be  toss'd  and  turn'd  to  me  in  words, 
But  find  supply  immediate.     Get  you  gone  : 
Put  on  a  most  importunate  aspect, 
A  visage  of  demand ;  for,  I  do  fear, 
When  every  feather  sticks  in  his  own  wing. 
Lord  Timon  will  be  left  a  naked  gull, 
Which  flashes  now  a  phcenix.     Get  you  gone. 

Cap/i.  I  go,  sir. 

Sen.  Ay,  go,  Sir. — take  the  bonds  along  with 
you, 
And  have  the  dates  in  compt.  * 

Caph.  I  will,  sir. 

Sen.  Go. 

[^Exeunt. 

SCENE  ll.—A  Hall  in  Timon 's  House. 

Enter  Flavius  tvith  many  bills  in  his  hand. 

Flav.  No  care,  no  stop !    so  senseless  of  ex- 
pense, 
That  he  will  neither  know  how  to  maintain  it. 
Nor  cease  his  flow  of  riot :  Takes  no  account 
How  things  go  from  him  ;  nor  resumes  no  care 
Of  what  is  to  continue.     Never  mind 
Was  to  be  so  unwise,  to  be  so  kind. 
What  shall  be  done  ?  He  will  not  hear,  till  feel : 
I  must  be  round  with  him,  now  he  comes  from 

hunting. 
Fye,  fye,  fye,  fye ! 

Enter  Caphis,  and  the  Servants  of  Isidore  and 
Varro. 

Caph.  Good  even,  Varro  :  *>  What, 

You  come  for  money  ? 

Var.  Serv.  Is  't  not  your  business  too  ? 

Caph.  It  is  ; — and  yours  too,  Isidore  ? 

Isid.  Serv.  It  is  so. 

Caph.  'Would  we  were  all  discharg'd ! 

r'ar.  Serv.  I  fear  it. 

Caph.  Here  comes  the  lord. 

Enter  Timon,  Alcibiades,  and  Lords,  Sfc. 
Tim.  So  soon  as   dinner's  done,    we'll  forth 
again. 
My   Alcibiades.  —  With    me  ?     What   is  your 
will? 


•  The  original  reads,— 

"  And  have  the  dates  in.     Come." 

Theobald  made  the  correction,  alleging  that  the  dates  were 
in  when  the  bonds  were  given. 

J"  Guodeven,  Varro.  It  is  remarkable  that  the  servants  in 
this  scene  take  the  names  of  their  m:isters,  like  tlie  Lord  Duke 
and  Sir  Charles  of  '  High  Life  Below  Stairs.' 


Caph.   My  lord,    hero    is  a   note  of   certain 
dues. 

Tim.  Dues  ?  whence  are  you  ? 

Caph.  Of  Athens  here,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Go  to  my  steward. 

Caph.  Please  it  your  lordship,  he  hath  put  nic 
off 
To  the  succession  of  new  days  this  month  : 
My  master  is  awak'd  by  great  occasion. 
To  call  upon  his  own :  and  humbly  prays  you. 
That  with  your  other  noble  parts  you'll  suit. 
In  giving  him  his  right. 

Tim.  Mine  honest  friend, 

I  prithee  but  repair  to  me  next  morning. 

Caph.  Nay,  good  my  lord, — 

Tim.  Contain  thyself,  good  friend. 

Var.  Serv.    One   Varro 's  servant,   my  good 
lord, — 

Isid.  Serv.  From  Isidore  ; 

He  humbly  prays  your  speedy  payment, — 

Caph.  If  you  did  know,  my  lord,  my  master's 
wants, — 

Var.  Serv.  'Twas  due  on  forfeiture,  my  lord, 
six  weeks. 
And  past, — 

Isid.  Serv.   Your  steward  puts  me  off,   my 
lord ; 
And  I  am  sent  expressly  to  your  lordship. 

Tim.  Give  me  breath  : — 
I  do  beseech  you,  good  my  lords,  keep  on  ; 

[^Exeunt  Alcibiades  and  Lords. 
I'll  wait  upon   you   instantly.  —  Come  hither, 
pray  you,  [To  Flavius. 

How  goes  the  world  that  I  am  thus  encounter'd 
With  clamorous  demands  of  debt,  broken  bonds, 
And  the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts. 
Against  my  honour  ?  * 

Flav.  Please  you,  gentlemen, 

The  time  is  unagreeable  to  this  business  : 
Your  importunacy  cease  till  after  dinner; 
That  I  may  make  his  lordship  understand 
Wherefore  you  are  not  paid. 

Tiin.  Do  so,  my  friends  : 

See  them  well  entertained.  \_Exit  Timon. 

Flav.  Pray  draw  near. 

[^Exit  Flavius. 

Enter  Apemantus  and  Fool. 

Caph.  Stay,  stay,  here  comes  the  fool  with 
Apemantus  ;  let's  have  some  sport  with  'em. 


•  We  print  this  passage  as  in  the  original.  Malone  reads, — 

"With  clamorous  demands  of  date-broken  bonds." 

1 1  scarcely  appears  to  us  that  any  cliange  is  necessary ;  for 
"the  detention  of  long-since-due  debts  "  is  merely  an  ampli- 
fication of  the  "  clamorous  demands  of  debt  " 


357 


Act  II.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  II. 


Var.  Serv.  Hang  him,  he'll  abuse  us. 

Iskl.  Serv.  A  plague  iipon  him,  dog ! 
Var.  Serv.  How  dost,  fool  ? 

Apem.  Dost  dialogue  with  thy  shadow? 

Var.  Serv.  I  speak  not  to  thee. 

Apem.  No;  'tis  to  thyself. — Come  away. 

[To  the  Fool. 

Isid.  Serv.  \_To  Var.  Serv.]  There's  the  fool 
hangs  on  your  back  already. 

Apem.  No,  thou  stand'st  single,  thou  art  not 
on  him  yet. 

Caph.  Where's  the  fool  now? 

Apem.  He  last  asked  the  question. — Poor 
rogues  and  usurers'  men !  bawds  between  gold 
and  want ! 

All  Serv.  What  are  we,  Apemantus  ? 

Apem.  Asses. 

All  Serv.  Why? 

Apem.  That  you  ask  me  what  you  are,  and 
do  not  know  yovirselves. — Speak  to  'em,  fool. 

Fool.  How  do  you,  gentlemen  ? 

All  Serv.  Gramercies,  good  fool:  How  does 
your  mistress  ? 

Fool.  She's  e'en  setting  on  water  to  scald 
such  chickens  as  you  are.  'Would  we  could  see 
you  at  Corinth. 

Apem.  Good !  Gramex'cy. 

Enter  Page. 

Fool.  Look  you,  here  comes  my  mistress'  page. 

Page.  [To  the  Fool.]  Why,  how  now,  cap- 
tain ?  what  do  you  in  this  wise  company  ?  How 
dost  thou,  Apemantus? 

Apem.  'Would  I  had  a  rod  in  my  mouth,  that 
I  might  answer  thee  profitably. 

Page.  Prithee,  Apemantus,  read  me  the  su- 
perscription of  these  letters  ;  I  know  not  which 
is  which. 

Apem.  Canst  not  read? 

Page.  No. 

Apem.  There  will  little  learning  die  then,  that 
day  thou  art  hanged.  This  is  to  lord  Timon ; 
this  to  Alcibiades.  Go  ;  thou  wast  born  a  bas- 
tard, and  thou'lt  die  a  bawd. 

Page.  Thou  wast  whelped  a  dog ;  and  thou 
shalt  famish,  a  dog's  death.  Answer  not,  I  am 
gone.  l^Exit  Page. 

Apem.  Even  so  thou  out-run'st  grace.  Fool, 
I  will  go  with  you  to  lord  Timon's. 

Fool.  Will  you  leave  me  there  ? 

Apem.  If  Timon  stay  at  home. — You  three 
serve  three  usurers? 

All  Serv.  Ay ;  'would  they  served  us  ! 

Apem.  So  would  I, — as  good  a  trick  as  ever 
hangman  served  thief. 
358 


Fool.  Are  you  three  usurers'  men  ? 

All  Serv.  Ay,  fool. 

Fool.  I  think  no  usurer  but  has  a  fool  to  his 
servant :  My  mistress  is  one,  and  I  am  her  fool. 
When  men  come  to  borrow  of  your  masters, 
they  approach  sadly,  and  go  away  merry ;  but 
they  enter  my  mistress'  house  merrily,  and  go 
away  sadly  :  The  reason  of  this  ? 

Var.  Serv.  I  could  render  one. 

Apem.  Do  it  then,  that  we  may  account  thee 
a  whoremaster  and  a  knave ;  which  notwith- 
standing, thou  shalt  be  no  less  esteemed. 

Var.  Serv.  What  is  a  whoremaster,  fool  ? 

Fool.  A  fool  in  good  clothes,  and  something 
like  thee.  'Tis  a  spirit:  sometime  it  appears 
like  a  lord;  sometime  like  a  lawyer;  sometime 
like  a  philosopher,  with  two  stones  more  than  his 
artificial  one :  He  is  very  often  like  a  knight, 
and,  generally,  in  all  shapes  that  man  goes  up 
and  down  in,  from  fourscore  to  thirteen,  this 
spirit  walks  in. 

J^ar  Serv.  Thou  art  not  altogether  a  fool. 

Fool.  Nor  thou  altogether  a  wise  man  :  as 
much  foolery  as  I  have,  so  much  wit  thou 
laekest. 

Apem.  That  answer  might  have  become  Ape- 
mantus. 

All  Serv,  Aside,  aside  ;  here  comes  lord  Timon. 

Re-enter  Timon  and  Flavius. 

Apem.  Come  with  me,  fool,  come. 

Fool.  I  do  not  always  follow  lover,  elder  bro- 
ther, and  woman  ;  sometime,  the  philosopher. 
\^Exeu7it  Apemantus  and  Fool. 

Flav.  'Pray  you,  walk  near ;  I  '11  speak  with 
you  anon.  [Exeunt  Serv. 

Tim.  You  make  me  marvel  :  Wherefore,  ere 
this  time, 
Had  you  not  fully  laid  my  state  before  me ; 
That  I  might  so  have  rated  my  expense. 
As  I  had  leave  of  means  ? 

Flav.  You  would  not  hear  me, 

At  many  leisures  I  proposed. 

Tim.  Go  to : 

Perchance,  some  single  vantages  you  took. 
When  my  indisposition  put  you  back  ; 
And  that  unaptness  made  your  minister,  * 
Thus  to  excuse  yourself. 

Flav.  O  my  good  lord  ! 

At  many  times  I  brought  in  my  accounts ; 
Laid  them  before  you ;  you  would  throw  them  off, 
And  say,  you  found  them  in  mine  honesty. 
When,  for  some  trifling  present,  you  have  bid  me 

"  The  meaning  of  this  construction  is,  —  perchance  you 
made  that  unaptness  your  minister. 


Act  II. J 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNE    II. 


Return  so  much,  I  have  shook  my  head,  and 

wept : 
Yea,  'gainst  the  authority  of  manners,  pray'd  you 
To  hold  your  hand  more  close  :  I  did  endure 
Not  seldom,  nor  no  slight  checks  ;  when  I  have 
Prompted  you,  in  the  ebb  of  your  estate, 
And  your  great  flow  of  debts.     My  lov'd  lord, 
Though  you  hear  now,  (too  late!)  yet  now's  a 

time, 
The  greatest  of  your  having  lacks  a  half 
To  pay  your  present  debts. 

Tim.  Let  all  my  land  be  sold. 

Flav.  'Tis   all   engag'd,    some   forfeited   and 
gone ; 
And  what  remains  will  hardly  stop  the  mouth 
Of  present  dues :  the  future  comes  apace  : 
What  shall  defend  the  interim  ?  and  at  length 
How  goes  our  reckoning  ? 

Tim.  To  Lacedsemon  did  my  land  extend. 
Flav.  O   my  good  lord,  the  world  is  but  a 
word  ; 
Were  it  all  yours,  to  give  it  in  a  breath, 
How  quickly  were  it  gone  ? 

Tim.  You  tell  me  true. 

Flav.  If  you  suspect  my  husbandry,  or  false- 
hood, 
Call  me  before  the  exactest  auditors, 
And  set  me  on  the  proof.    So  the  gods  bless  me, 
When  all  our  offices*  have  been  oppress'd 
With   riotous   feeders ;    when   our  vaults   have 

wept 
With  drunken  spilth  of  wine  ;  when  every  room 
Hath  blaz'd  with  lights,  and  bray'd  with  min- 
strelsy ; 
I  have  retir'd  me  to  a  wasteful  cock,** 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow. 

Tim.  Prithee,  no  more. 

Flav.    Heavens,  have  I  said,  the  bounty  of 
this  lord ! 


"  Offices.  These  are  not  the  apartments  for  servants,  in  our 
present  acoeptiition  of  the  term,  but  rooms  of  hospitality,  in 
the  sense  in  which  the  word  is  used  by  Shirley: — 

"  Let  all  the  offices  of  entertainment 
Be  free  and  open." 

''  Pope,  by  way  of  making  this  passage  intelligible,  sub- 
stituted "  a  lonely  room  "  for  a  wasteful  cock.  Upon  this 
hint  Hanmer  tells  us  that  a  cock  is  a  cock-loft,  which  signifies 
a  garret  lying  in  waste.  Steevens,  under  the  name  of  Col- 
lins, gives  an  explanation,  the  character  of  which  is  suffi- 
ciently designated  by  the  signature.  It  appears  to  us  tliat 
there  is  a  slight  typographical  error  in  the  passage.  Tlie 
"  vaults  have  wept  with  drunken  spilth  of  wine;"  the 
steward  has  quitted  the  scene  of  extravagance  to  weep 
alone — 

"  I  have  retir'd  me  from  a  wasteful  cock. 
And  set  mine  eyes  at  flow." 

The  spilth  of  the  wasteful  cock,  and  the  flow  of  the  weeping 
eye,  are  here  put  in  opposition.  We  do  not  venture  to  change 
the  text,  although  we  believe  that  frmn,  or,  as  it  was  some- 
times written, /ro,  might  be  readily  mistaken  for  to. 


How  many  prodigal  bits  have  slaves,  and  pea- 
sants, 

This  night  englutted!  Who  is  not  Timon's? 

What  heart,  head,  sword,  force,  means,  but  is 
lord  Timon's  ? 

Great  Timon,  noble,  worthy,  royal  Timon? 

Ah !  when  the  means  are  gone  that  buy  this 
praise, 

The  breath  is  gone  whereof  this  praise  is  made  : 

Feast-won,  fast-lost ;  one  cloud  of  winter  showers, 

These  flies  are  couch'd. 

Tim.  Come,  sermon  me  no  further  : 

No  villainous  bounty  yet  hath  pass'd  my  heart ; 

Unwisely,  not  ignobly,  have  I  given. 

Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  Canst  thou  the  conscience 
lack 

To  think  I  shall  lack  friends  ?  Secure  thy  heart ; 

If  I  would  broach  the  vessels  of  my  love. 

And  try  the  argument  of  hearts  by  borrowing. 

Men,  and  men's  fortunes,  could  I  frankly  use, 

As  I  can  bid  thee  speak. 

Flav.  Assurance  bless  your  thoughts! 

Tim.  And,  in  some  sort,  these  wants  of  mine 
are  crown'd. 

That  I  account  them  blessings ;  for  by  these 

Shall  I  try  friends  :  You  shall  perceive,  how  you 

Mistake  my  fortunes ;    I    am   wealthy   in  my 
friends. 

Within  there  ! — Flaminius  !  Servilius  I 

Enter  Flaminius,  Servilius,  and  other 
Servants. 

Serv.  My  lord,  my  lord, — 

Tim.  I  will  despatch  you  severally. — You  to 
lord  Lucius, — to  lord  Lucullus  you ;  I  hunted 
with  his  honour  to-day  ; — you,  to  Sempronius  : 
Commend  me  to  their  loves ;  and,  I  am  proud, 
say,  that  my  occasions  have  found  time  to  use 
them  toward  a  supply  of  money  :  let  the  request 
be  fifty  talents. " 

Flam.  As  you  have  said,  my  lord. 

Flav.  Lord  Lucius,  and  Lucullus  ?  humph  ! 

\_Aside. 

Tim.  Go  you,  sir,   [to  another  Serv.]  to  the 
senators, 
(Of  whom,  even  to  the  state's  best  health,  I  have 


»  Steevens  prints  this  speech  metrically  (see  Introductory 
Notice).  It  may  be  said  that  the  metre  thus  "regulated  "  is 
not  worse  than  we  find  in  other  passages  of  the  play  :  that 
is  true ;  but  those  other  passages  occur  iu  scenes  which, 
taken  as  a  whole,  do  not  bear  the  marks  of  Shakspere's 
hand.  This  scene  between  Timon  and  the  steward  has  not 
one  of  those  characteristics  wliich  we  have  pointed  out  as 
distinguishing  the  work  of  an  inferior  author  from  the  work 
of  our  poet.  In  the  harmony  of  the  blank  verse,  the  vigour 
of  the  thought,  and  the  fluency  of  the  expression,  this  scene 
is  essentially  Shakspere's:  and  it  becomes  vitiated,  therefore, 
when  a  prose  speech  is  converted  into  unmetrical  verse. 

3.59 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SOKNK    II. 


Deserv'd  this   hearing,)  bid  'em  send  o' the  in- 
stant 
A  thousand  talents  to  me. 

Flav.  I  have  been  bold, 

(For  that  I  knew  it  the  most  general  way,) 
To  them  to  use  your  signet,  and  your  name  ; 
But  they  do  shake  their  heads,  and  I  am  here 
No  richer  in  return. 

T'im.  Is  't  true  ?  can 't  be  1 

Flav.  They  answer,  in  a  joint  and  corporate 
voice. 
That  now  they  are  at  fall,  want  treasure,  cannot 
Do  what  they  would ;  are  sorry — you  are  ho- 
nourable,— 
But  yet  they  could  have  wish'd  —  they  know 

not — 
Something  hath  been  amiss — a  noble  nature 
May  catch  a  wrench — would  all  were  well — ^"tis 

pity— 
And  so,  intending  other  serious  matters, 
After  distasteful  looks,  and  these  hard  fractions. 
With  certain  half-caps,  and  cold-moving  nods, 
They  froze  me  into  silence. 

Tim.  You  gods,  reward  them ! 

'Prithee,  man,  look  cheerly !    These  old  fellows 
Have  their  ingratitude  in  them  hereditary  : 
Their  blood  is  cak'd,  'tis  cold,  it  seldom  flows ; 


'Tis  lack  of  kindly  warmth,  they  are  not  kind; 
And  nature,  as  it  grows  again  toward  earth. 
Is  fashion'd  for  the  journey,  dull,  and  heavy. 
Go  to  Ventidius, —  [/o  a  Serv.]    'Prithee,    [/o 

Flavius]  be  not  sad, 
Thou  art  true  and  honest ;  ingeniously  I  speak, 
No  blame  belongs  to  thee : — [to  Serv.]  Ventidius 

lately 
Buried  his  father;  by  whose  death  he  's  stepp'd 
Into  a  great  estate  :  when  he  was  poor, 
Imprison'd,  and  in  scarcity  of  friends, 
I  clear'd  him  with  five  talents.    Greet  him  from 

me; 
Bid  him  suppose  some  good  necessity 
Touches  his  friend,  which  craves  to  be  remem- 

ber'd 
With  those  five  talents  : — that  had,  [to  Flav.] 

give  't  these  fellows 
To   whom   'tis   instant   due.     Ne'er   speak,   or 

think 
That   Timon's  fortunes  'mong  his  friends   can 

sink. 
Flav.  I  would  I   could   not  think  it :    That 

thought  is  bounty's  foe ; 
Being  free  itself  it  thinks  all  others  so. 

[Exeunt. 


[The  Propylaea] 


3fi() 


V-      2,1 


[Athens.     The  Pnyx.] 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I. — Athens.     A  Room  in  LucuUus's 
House. 

Flaminius  waiting.     Enter  a  Servant  to  liim. 

Serv.    I   have   told   my    lord   of  you,  he  is 
coming  down  to  you. 
Flam.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Enter  Lucullus. 

Serv.  Here's  my  lord. 

Lucid.  \_Aside.']  One  of  lord  Timon's  men?  a 
gift,  I  warrant.  Why,  this  hits  right ;  1  dreamt 
of  a  silver  bason  and  ewer  to-night.  Flaminius, 
honest  Flaminius ;  you  are  very  respectively^ 
welcome,  sir. — Fill  me  some  wine. — \_Exit  Ser- 
vant.] And  how  does  tliat  honourable,  com- 
plete, free-hearted  gentleman  of  Athens,  thy 
very  bomitiful  good  lord  and  master? 

Flam.  His  health  is  well,  sir. 

Lticul.  I  am  right  glad  that  his  health  is  well, 
sir :  And  what  hast  thou  there  under  thy  cloak, 
pretty  Flaminius? 

Flam.  'Faith,  nothing  but  an  empty  box,  sir ; 
which,  in  my  lord's  behalf,  1  come  to  entreat 
your  honour  to  supply ;  who,  having  great  and 

'  Reapectively — respectfully. 

TR.4GEDIES  VOT..   I.  .3  A 


instant  occasion  to  use  fifty  talents,  hath  sent  to 
your  lordship  to  furnish  him,  nothing  doubting 
your  present  assistance  therein. 

Lucul.  La,  la,  la,  la, — nothing  doubting,  says 
he?  alas,  good  lord!  a  noble  gentleman  'tis,  if 
he  would  not  keep  so  good  a  liouse.  Many  a 
time  and  often  I  ha  dined  with  him,  and  told 
him  on  't ;  and  come  again  to  supper  to  him,  of 
purpose  to  have  him  spend  less :  and  yet  he 
woidd  embrace  no  counsel,  take  no  warning  by 
my  coming.  Every  man  has  his  fault,  and 
honesty  ^  is  his ;  I  ha'  told  him  on  't,  but  I  could 
ne'er  get  him  from  't. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  wine. 

Serv.  Please  your  lordship,  here  is  the  wine. 

Lucul.  Flaminius,  I  have  noted  thee  always 
wise.     Here's  to  thee. 

Flam.  Your  lordship  speaks  your  pleasure. 

Lucul.  I  have  observed  thee  always  for  a 
towardly  prompt  spirit, — give  thee  thy  due, — 
and  one  that  knows  what  belongs  to  reason ; 
and  canst  use  the  time  well,  if  the  time  use  thee 
well :  good  parts  in  thee.  —  Get  you  gone, 
sirrah. — {To  the  Servant,  ivho  goes  out.'] — Draw 

•  Honesty  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  liberality. 

361 


Act  111  ] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  II. 


nearer,  honest  Flaminius.  Thy  lord's  a  boun- 
tiful gentleman  :  but  thou  art  wise;  and  thou 
know'st  well  enough,  although  thou  com'st  to 
me,  that  this  is  no  time  to  lend  money ;  espe- 
cially upon  bare  friendship,  without  security. 
Here's  three  solidares  for  thee ;  good  boy,  wink 
at  me,  and  say  thou  saw'st  me  not.  Fare  thee 
well. 

Flam.  Is 't  possible,  the  world  should  so  much 
differ : 
And  we  alive,  thatliv'd?  Fly,  damned  baseness, 
To  him  that  worships  thee  ! 

\_Throwing  the  money  mvay. 

Lucul.  Ha !  now  I  see  thou  art  a  fool,  and  fit 
for  thy  master.  [^Exit  Lucullus. 

Flam.  May  these  add  to  the  luimber  that  may 
scald  thee ! 
Let  molten  coin  be  thy  damnation. 
Thou  disease  of  a  friend,  and  not  himself! 
Has  friendsliip  such  a  faint  and  milky  heart. 
It  turns  in  less  than  two  nights  1     O  you  gods, 
I  feel  my  master's  passion  !    This  slave  unto  his 

honour 
Has  my  lord's  meat  in  him  ; 
Why  should  it  thrive,  and  turn  to  nutriment, 
When  he  is  turn'd  to  poison  ? 
O,  may  diseases  only  work  ujjon  't ! 
And,  when  he's  sick  to  death,  let  not  that  part 

of  nature 
Which  my  lord  paid  for,  be  of  any  power 
To  expel  sickness,  but  prolong  his  hoiu- !    \_Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  public  Place. 

Enter  Lucius,  with  Three  Strangers. 
Luc.  Who,  the  lord  Timon  1  he  is  my  very 
good  friend,  and  an  honourable  gentleman. 

1  Stran.  We  know  him  for  no  less,  though  we 
are  but  strangers  to  him.  But  I  can  tell  you 
one  thing,  my  lord,  and  which  I  hear  from 
common  rumours :  now  lord  Timon's  happy 
hours  are  done  and  past,  and  his  estate  shrinks 
from  him. 

Luc.  Fye  no,  do  not  believe  it ;  he  cannot 
want  for  money. 

2  Stra.  But  believe  you  this,  my  lord,  that, 
not  long  ago,  one  of  his  men  was  with  the  lord 
Lucullus,  to  borrow  so  many  talents ;  nay, 
urged  extremely  for 't,  and  showed  what  neces- 
sity belonged  to 't,  and  yet  was  denied. 

Luc.  How? 

2  Stran.  I  tell  you,  denied,  my  lord. 

Luc.  What  a  strange  case  was  that?  now, 
before  the  gods,  I  am  ashamed  on't.  Denied 
that  honourable  man;  there  was  very  little 
362 


honour  showed  in't.  For  my  own  part,  I  must 
needs  confess  I  have  received  some  small  kind- 
nesses from  him,  as  money,  plate,  jewels,  and 
such  like  trifles,  nothing  comparing  to  his ;  yet, 
had  he  mistook  him,  and  sent  to  me,  I  should 
ne'er  have  denied  his  occasion  so  many  talents. 

Enter  Servilius. 

Ser.  See,  by  good  hap,  yonder's  my  lord ;  I 
have  sweat  to  see  his  honour. — My  honoured 
lord, —  \^To  Lucius. 

Ltic.  Servilius !  you  are  kindly  met,  sir.  Fare 
thee  well: — Commend  me  to  thy  honourable- 
virtuous  lord,  my  very  exquisite  friend. 

Ser.  May  it  please  your  honour,  my  lord  hath 
sent — 

Luc.  Ha !  what  has  he  sent?  I  am  so  much 
endeared  to  that  lord;  he's  ever  sending :  How 
shall  I  thank  him,  think'st  thou?  And  what 
has  he  sent  now  ? 

Ser.  He  has  only  sent  his  present  occasion 
now,  my  lord :  requesting  your  lordship  to  sup- 
ply his  instant  use  with  so  many  talents. 

Luc.  I  know  his  lordship  is  butmeiTy  with  me ; 
He  cannot  want  fifty-five  hundred  talents. 

Ser.  But  in  the  mean  time  he  wants  less,  my 
lord. 
If  his  occasion  were  not  virtuous, 
I  should  not  urge  it  half  so  faithfully. 

Luc.  Dost  thou  speak  seriously,  Servilius  ? 

Ser.  Upon  my  soul,  'tis  true,  sir. 

Luc.  What  a  wicked  beast  was  I,  to  disfur- 
nish  myself  against  such  a  good  time,  when  I 
might  have  shown  myself  honourable !  How  un- 
luckily it  happened,  that  I  should  purchase  the 
day  before  for  a  little  part,  and  undo  a  great 
deal  of  honour! — Servilius,  now  before  the 
gods  I  am  not  able  to  do  't ,  the  more  beast,  I 
say  : — I  was  sending  to  use  lord  Timon  myself, 
these  gentlemen  can  witness ;  but  I  would  not, 
for  the  wealth  of  Athens,  I  had  done  't  now. 
Commend  me  bountifully  to  his  good  lordship ; 
and  I  hope  his  honour  will  conceive  the  fairest 
of  me,  because  I  have  no  power  to  be  kind : — 
And  tell  him  this  from  me,  I  count  it  one  of  my 
greatest  afflictions,  say,  that  I  cannot  pleasure 
such  an  honourable  gentleman.  Good  Servilius, 
will  you  befriend  me  so  far,  as  to  use  mine  own 
words  to  him  ? 

Ser.  Yes,  sir,  I  shall. 

Luc.    I'll   look   you   out  a  good  turn,   Ser- 
vilius.—  \_Exit  Servilius. 
True,  as  you  said,  Timon  is  shrunk,  indeed ; 
And  he  that's  once  denied  will  hardly  speed. 

\_Exit  Lucius. 


Act  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNK  lU. 


1  Stran.  Do  you  observe  this,  Hostilius  ? 

2  Stran.  Ay,  too  well. 
1  Stran.  Why  this  is  the  world's  soul ; 

And  just  of  the  same  piece 

Is  every  flatterer's  sport :  who  can  call  him  his 

friend 
That  dips  in  the  same  dish  ?  for,  in  my  knowing, 
Timon  has  been  this  lord's  father. 
And  kept  his  credit  with  his  purse ;  "* 
Supported  his  estate :  nay,  Timon's  money 
Has  paid  his  men  their  wages  :  He  ne'er  drinks. 
But  Timon's  silver  treads  upon  his  lip; 
And  yet,  (O,  see  the  monstrousness  of  man 
When  he  looks  out  in  an  ungrateful  shape  !) 
He  does  deny  him,  in  respect  of  his. 
What  charitable  men  afford  to  beggars. 

3  Stran.  Religion  groans  at  it. 

1  Stran.  For  mine  own  part, 

I  never  tasted  Timon  in  my  life. 
Nor  came  any  of  his  bounties  over  me, 
To  mark  me  for  his  friend;  yet,  I  protest. 
For  his  right  noble  mind,  illustrious  virtue. 
And  honourable  carriage. 
Had  his  necessity  made  use  of  me, 
I  would  have  put  my  wealth  into  donation, 
And  the  best  half  should  have  return'd  to  him. 
So  much  I  love  his  heart :  But,  I  perceive. 
Men  must  learn  now  with  pity  to  dispense  : 
For  policy  sits  above  conscience.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. — A  Room  in  Sempronius's 
House. 

Enter  Sempronius,  and  a  Servant  of  Timon's. 

Sem.  Must  he  needs  trouble  me  in't?  Humph! 
'bove  all  others  ? 
He  might  have  tried  lord  Lucius,  or  Lucullus ; 
And  now  Ventidius  is  wealthy  too. 
Whom  he  redeem'd  from  prison  :  All  these  ^ 
Owe  their  estates  unto  him. 

Serv.  My  lord. 

They  have  all  been   touch'd,  and  found  base 

metal  ; 
For  they  have  all  denied  him ! 

Sem.  How !  have  they  denied  him  ? 

Has  Ventidius  and  Lucullus  denied  him?*^ 


"  Steeveiis  ' '  regulates ' '  these  lines  thus : — 
'•  Why  this 
Is  the  world's  soul ;  and  just  of  tlie  same  piece 
Is  every  flatterer's  spirit.    Who  can  call  him 
His  friend  that  dips  in  the  same  dish?  for,  in 
My  knowing,  Timon  has  been  this  lord's  father, 
And  kept  his  credit  with  his  purse :" 
Tlie  word  spurt  of  the  original  was  changed  into  spirit  by 
Theobald.  •=  F  ^ 

''  Tlieword  three,  which  is  nut  in  the  original,  is  usually 
inserted  here,  "to  complete  ihe  measure." 

"  Sleevens  is  here  quite  pathetic  on  the  subject  of  metre : — 


And  does  he  send  to  me?  Three?  humph  ! — 
It  shows  but  little  love  or  judgment  in  him. 
Must  I  be  his   last  refuge?    His  friends,  like 

physicians. 
Thrice  "  give  him  over:    Must  I  take  th' cure 

upon  me  ? 
H' has  much  disgrac'dme  in't,  I'm  angry  at  him. 
That   might  have  known  my  place :    I  see  no 

sense  for  't. 
But  his  occasions  might  have  woo'd  me  first; 
For,  in  my  conscience,  I  was  the  first  man 
That  e'er  receiv'd  gift  from  him  : 
And  does  he  think  so  backwardly  of  me  now. 
That  I'll  requite  it  last?  No. 
So  it  may  prove  an  argument  of  laughter 
To  the  rest,  and  'mongst  lords  I  be  thought  a 

fool." 
I  had  rather  than  the  worth  of  thrice  the  sum, 
H'  had  sent  to  me  first,  but  for  my  mind's  sake; 
I  had  such  a  courage  to  do  him  good.   But  now 

return. 
And  with  their  faint  reply  this  answer  join  ; 
Who  bates  mine  honour,  shall  not  know  my 

coin.  lExit. 

Serv,  Excellent!  Your  lordship's  a  goodly 
villain.  The  devil  knew  not  what  he  did  when 
he  made  man  politic  ;  he  crossed  himself  by' t : 
and  I  cannot  think,  but,  in  the  end,  the  villainies 
of  man  will  set  him  clear. •=  How  fairly  this  lord 
strives  to  appear  foul !  takes  virtuous  copies  to  be 
wicked;  like  those  that,  under  hot  ardent  zeal, 
would  set  whole  realms  on  fire  :  Of  such  a  nature 
is  his  politic  love. 

This  was  my  lord's  best  hope  ;  now  all  are  fled. 
Save  only  the  gods:  Now  his  friends  are  dead, 

"  with  this  mutilated,  and  therefore  rugged  speech,  no  ear 
accustomed  to  harmony  can  be  satisfied.  But  I  can  only 
point  out  metrical  dilapidations,  which  I  profess  my  inability 
to  repair."  It  appears  remarkable  that  it  never  occurred  to 
Steevens,  and  others,  that  this  ruggedness,  which  they  put 
down  to  the  account  of  mutilations  and  dilapidations,  pre- 
vails through  whole  scenes,  and  that  other  scenes  are  perfectly 
harmonious.  The  rugged  speeches  are  at  the  same  time 
feeble  speeches.  The  harmonious  speeches  are  at  the  same 
time  vigorous  speeches.  The  instant  that  we  encounter 
Shakspere's  thoughts,  we  find  them  associated  wiih  Shak- 
spere's  music. 

»  Thrice.    The  original  reads  thrive-     Johnson  proposed 
thrice,  which  appears  to  us  warranted  by  the  previous  line: — 
"  And  does  he  send  to  me?    Three?  Humph!" 

li  The  pronoun  /  was  not  found  in  the  first  folio,  but  was 
inserted  in  the  second.      Steevens  tries  his  hand  upon  the 
"  incorrigible"  metre  here,  by  addition  and  trauspositiou : — 
"  And  does  he  think  so  backwardly  of  me  now. 
That  I'll  requite  it  last?     No;  so  it  may  prove 
An  argument  of  laugliter  to  the  rest, 
And  I  amongst  the  lords  be  thought  a  fool." 

°  The  commentators,  with  the  exception  of  Bitson,  have 
assumed  that  the  villainies  of  man  are  to  set  the  devil  clear. 
Ritsou  says,  "  The  devil's  folly  in  making  man  politic,  is  to 
appear  in  this,  that  he  will  at  the  long-run  be  too  many  for 
his  old  master,  and  get  free  of  his  bonds.  The  villaiuies  of 
man  are  to  set  himself  clear,  not  the  devil,  to  whom  he  is 
supposed  to  be  in  thraldom."  Tieck  adopts  Ritson's  expla- 
nation. 

363 


Act  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  IV. 


Doors   that  were   ne'er  acquainted  with  their 

wards 
Many  a  bounteous  year,  must  be  employ'd 
Now  to  guard  sure  their  master. 
And  this  is  all  a  liberal  course  allows ; 
Who  cannot   keep  his  wealth   must   keep  his 

house.  \_Exit. 

SCENE  lY.—A  Hall  in  Timon's  House. 

Enter  two  Sei'vants  of  Varro,  and  the  Servant  of 
Lucius,  meeting  T IT vs,  Hortensius,  andotlier 
Servants  to  Timon's  creditors,  icuiting  his  coin- 
ing out. 

Var.  Serv.   Well  met;    good-morrow,   Titus 
and  Hortensius. 

Tit.  The  like  to  you,  kind  Varro. 

Hor.  Lucius  ? 

What,  do  we  meet  together? 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  and  1  think 

One  business  doth  command  us  all;  for  mine 
Is  money. 

Tit.         So  is  theirs  and  ours. 

Enter  Philotus. 

Luc.  Serv.  And  sir 

Philotus  too ! 

Phi.  Good  day  at  once. 

Luc.  Serv.  Welcome,  good  brother, 

What  do  you  think  the  hour? 

Phi.  Labouring  for  nine. 

Luc.  Serv.  So  much  ? 

Phi.  Is  not  my  lord  seen  yet  ? 

Luc.  Serv.  Not  yet. 

Phi.  I  wonder  on't;  he  was  wont  to  shine  at 
seven. 

Ltic.  Serv.  Ay,  but  the  days  are  waxed  shorter 
with  him  : 
You  must  consider,  that  a  prodigal  course 
Is  like  the  sun's ;  but  not,  like  his,  recoverable. 
I  fear, 

'Tis  deepest  winter  in  lord  Timon's  purse ; 
That  is,  one  may  reach  deep  enough,  and  yet 
Find  little. 

Phi.         I  am  of  your  fear  for  that. 

Tit.  I'll  show  you  how  to  observe  a  strange 
event. 
Your  lord  sends  now  for  money. 

Hor.  Most  true,  he  does. 

Tit.  And  he  wears  jewels  now   of  Timon's 

For  which  I  wait  for  money. 

Hor.  It  is  against  my  heart, 

Luc.  Serv.  Mark,  how  strange  it  shows, 

Timon  in  this  should  pay  more  than  he  owes : 
364 


And  e'en  as  if  your  lord  should  wear  rich  jewels, 
And  send  for  money  for  'em. 

Hor.  I  am  weary  of  this  charge,  the  gods  can 
witness : 
I  know,  my  lord  hath  spent  of  Timon's  wealth. 
And  now  ingratitude  makes  it  worse  than  stealth. 
1  Var.    Serv.     Yes,   mine's   three   thousand 

crowns  :  What's  yours  ? 
Luc.  Serv.  Five  thousand  mine. 
1  Var.  Serv.  'Tis  much  deep:  and  it  should 
seem  by  the  sum, 
Your  master's  confidence  was  above  mine  ; 
Else,  surely,  his  had  equall'd. 

Enter  Flaminius. 

Tit.  One  of  lord  Timon's  men. 

Luc.  Serv.  Flaminius!  sir,  a  word:  'Pray,  is 
my  lord  ready  to  come  forth  ? 

Flam.  No,  indeed,  he  is  not. 

Tit.  We  attend  his  lordship ;  'Pray,  signify 
so  much. 

Flam.  I  need  not  tell  him  that;  he  knows 
you  are  too  diligent.  \_Exit  Flaminius. 

Enter  Flavius,  in  a  cloak,  muffled. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ha !  is  not  that  his  steward  muffled 
so? 
He  goes  away  in  a  cloud :  call  him,  call  him. 
Tit.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ? 
1  Var.  Serv.  By  your  leave,  sir, — 
Flav.  What  do  you  ask  of  me,  my  friend? 
Tit.  We  wait  for  certain  money  here,  sir. 
Flav.  Ay, 

If  money  were  as  certain  as  your  waiting, 
'Twere  sure  enough. 
Why  then  preferr'd   you   not  your  sums   and 

bills. 
When  yovu-  false  masters  eat  of  my  lord's  meat? 
Then  they  could  smile,  and  fawn  upon  his  debts. 
And  take  down  th'  interest  into  their  gluttonous 

maws. 
You  do  yourselves  but  wrong,  to  stir  me  up ; 
Let  me  pass  quietly  :* 

Believe  't,  my  lord  and  I  have  made  an  end ; 
I  have  no  moi"e  to  reckon,  he  to  spend. 

Luc.  Serv.  Ay,  but  this  answer  will  not  serve. 

Flav.  If  'twill  not  serve  'tis  not  so  base  as  you ; 

For  you  serve  knaves.  \_Exit. 

1  Var.  Serv.   How  !  what  does  his  cashier'd 
worship  mutter? 

2  Var.  Serv.  No  matter  what;  he's  poor,  and 
that's  revenge  enough.   Who  can  speak  broader 

»  This  is  a  fine  Rowing  passage  of  the  original,  which 
Stcevens  lias  "regulated  "  iuto  a  harsh  stiffness.  (See  Intro- 
ductory Notice). 


Acr  in.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCENK  V. 


than  he  that  has  no  house  to  put  his  head  in  ? 
Sucli  may  rail  against  great  buildings. 

Enter  Servilius. 

Tit.  O,  here's  Servilius  ;  now  we  shall  know 
some  answer. 

Ser.  If  I  might  beseech  you,  gentlemen,  to 
repair  some  other  hour,  I  should  derive  much 
from  't :  for,  take  't  of  my  soul,  my  lord  leans 
wond'rously  to  discontent.  His  comfortable 
temper  has  forsook  him ;  he  is  much  out  of 
health,  and  keeps  his  chamber.'' 

Luc.  Serv.  Many  do  keep  their  chambers  are 
not  sick : 
And  if  it  be  so  far  beyond  his  health, 
Methinks,  he  should  the  sooner  pay  his  debts. 
And  make  a  clear  way  to  the  gods. 

Ser.  Good  gods ! 

Tit.  We  cannot  take  this  for  answer,  sii*. 

Flam.  \_W'ithin.']  Servilius,  help! — my  lord! 
my  lord ! 

Enter  Timon,  in  a  rage;  Flaminius  following. 

Tim.  What,  are  my  doors  oppos'd  against  my 
passage  ? 
Have  I  been  ever  free,  and  must  my  house 
Be  my  retentive  enemy,  my  gaol  ? 
The  place  which  I  have  feasted,  does  it  now. 
Like  all  mankind,  show  me  an  iron  heart? 

Luc.  Serv.  Put  in  now,  Titus. 

Tit.  My  lord,  here  is  my  bill. 
.  Luc,  Serv.  Here's  mine. 

Hor.  Serv.  And  mine,  my  lord. 

Both  Far.  Serv.  And  ours,  my  lord. 

Phi.  All  our  bills. 

Tim.  Knock  me  down  with  'em:  cleave  me 
to  the  girdle.  ** 

Luc.  Serv.  Alas !  my  lord, — 

Tim.  Cut  my  heart  in  sums. 

Tit.  Mine,  fifty  talents. 

Tim.  Tell  out  my  blood. 

Luc.  Serv.  Five  thousand  crowns,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Five  thousand  drops  pays  that. 
What  yours  ? — and  yours  ? 

1  Far.  Serv.  My  lord, — 

2  Far.  Serv.  My  lord, — 

Tim.  Tear  me,   take  me,  and  the  gods  fall 

upon  you !  [Exit. 

Hor.  'Faith,  I  perceive  our  masters  may  throw 

their  caps  at  their  money ;  these  debts  may  well 

•  Tliis  speech  is  printed  liere  as  prose,  according  to  the  old 
copy.  Steevens  has  made  verse  of  it,  after  a  certain  fashion, 
l^ See  Introductory  Notice.) 

'•  The  quibble  which  Timon  here  employs  is  used  by 
Decker  in  his  'Gull's  Horn  Book;' — "They  durst  not  strike 
diitvn  their  customers  with  large  bills:"  tlte  allusion  is  to 
bills,  or  battle-axes. 


be  called  desperate  ones,  for  a  madman  owes 
'em.  [^Exeunt. 

Re-enter  Timon  and  Flavius. 

Tim.  They  have  e'en  put  my  breath  from  me, 
the  slaves: 
Creditors! — devils. 

Flav.  My  dear  lord, — 

2'im.  What  if  it  should  be  so? 

Plain.  My  lord, — 

Tim.  I'll  have  it  so: — My  steward! 

Flav.  Here,  my  lord. 

Tim.  So,  fitly.     Go,  bid  all  my  friends  again, 
Lucius,  Lucidlus,  and  Sempronius  ;  all:" 
I'll  once  more  feast  the  rascals. 

Flav.  O  my  lord. 

You  only  speak  from  yoin*  distracted  soul ; 
There  is  not  so  much  left,  to  furnish  out 
A  moderate  table. 

21m.  Be't  not  in  thy  care;  go, 

I  charge  thee ;  invite  them  all ;  let  in  the  tide 
Of  knaves  once  more ;  my  cook  and  I'll  provide. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  Y.—The  Senate  House. 

The  Senate  sitting.  Enter  Alcibiades,  attended. 

1  Sen.  My  lord,  you  have  my  voice  to  it; 
The  fault's  bloody ; 

'Tis  necessary  he  should  die : 

Nothing  emboldens  sin  so  much  as  mercy. 

2  Sen.  Most  true ;  the  law  shall  bruise  him. 
Alcib.  Honour,  health,  and  compassion  to  the 

senate  ! 

1  Sen.  Now,  captain. 

Alcib.  I  am  an  humble  suitor  to  your  virtues ; 
For  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law. 
And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruellj^ 
It  pleases  time,  and  fortune,  to  lie  heavy 
Upon  a  friend  of  mine,  who,  in  hot  blood, 
Hath  stepp'd  into  the  law,  which  is  past  depth 
To  those  that,  without  heed,  do  plunge  into  't. 
He  is  a  man,  setting  his  fate  aside. 
Of  comely  virtues : 

Nor  did  he  soil  the  fact  with  cowardice ; 
(An  honour  in  him,  which  buys  out  his  fault,) 
But,  with  a  noble  fury,  and  fair  spirit. 
Seeing  his  reputation  touch'd  to  death, 
He  did  oppose  his  foe : 
And  with  such  sober  and  unnoted  passion 
He  did  behave  his  anger,  'ere  'twas  spent. 
As  if  he  had  but  prov'd  an  argument. 

'  This  is  the  reading  of  the  second  folio      Tlie  first  copy 
has, — 

"  Lucius,  Lucullus,  and  Sempronius  Ullurxa :  all." 

365 


Act  III] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCFNE    V. 


1  Sen.  You  undergo  too  strict  a  paradox, 
Striving  to  make  an  ugly  deed  look  fair : 
Your  words  have  took  such  pains,  as  if  they 

labour'd 
To  bring  manslaughter  into  form,  and  set  quar- 
relling 
Upon  the  head  of  valour;  which,  indeed, 
Is  valour  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 
When  sects  and  factions  were  newly  born  : 
He's  truly  valiant  that  can  wisely  suffer 
The  worst  that  man  can  breathe  ; 
And  make  his  wrongs  his  outsides, 
To  wear  them  like  his  raiment,  carelessly  ; 
And  ne'er  prefer  his  injuries  to  his  heart, 
To  bring  it  into  danger. 
If  wrongs  be  evils,  and  enforce  us  kill, 
"What  folly  'tis  to  hazard  life  for  ill  ? 

Alcib.  My  lord,— 

1  Sen.  You  cannot  make  gross  sins  look  clear; 
To  revenge  is  no  valour,  but  to  bear. 

Alcib.  My  lords,  then,  under  favour,  pardon 

me, 
If  I  speak  like  a  captain. — 
Why  do  fond  men  expose  themselves  to  battle. 
And  not  endure  all  threats  ?  sleep  upon  't, 
And  let  the  foes  quietly  cut  their  throats. 
Without  repugnancy  1  If  there  be 
Such  valour  in  the  bearing,  what  make  we 
Abroad?  why  then,  women  are  more  valiant, 
That  stay  at  home,  if  bearing  carry  it ; 
And  the  ass,  more  captain  than  the  lion ; 
The  fellow »  loaden  with  irons,  wiser  than  the 

judge, 
If  wisdom  be  in  suffering.     O  my  lords, 
As  you  are  great,  be  pitifully  good  : 
Who  cannot  condemn  rashness  in  cold  blood  1 
To  kill,  I  grant,  is  sin's  extremest  gust; 
But,  in  defence,  by  mercy,  'tis  most  just. 
To  be  in  anger  is  impiety  ; 
But  who  is  man  that  is  not  angry  ? 
Weigh  but  the  crime  with  this. 

2  Sen.  You  breathe  in  vain. 

Alcih.  In  vain  ?  his  service  done 

At  Lacedgemon,  and  Byzantium, 
Were  a  sufficient  briber  for  his  life. 

1  Sen.  What's  that? 

Alcib.  Why,  say,   my  lords,  h'as  done  fair 
service. 
And  slain  in  fight  many  of  your  enemies  : 
How  full  of  valour  did  he  bear  hiiuself 
In  the  last  conflict,  and  made  plenteous  wounds  ! 

2  Sen.  He  has  made  too  much  plenty  with  'em. 
He's  a  sworn  rioter  :  he  has  a  sin 


'  Fellow. 

306 


Tliis  is  usually  i;riiiti'd/t'/i;n. 


That  often  drowns  him,  and  takes  his  valour  pri- 
soner : 
If  there  were  no  foes,  that  were  enough^ 
To  overcome  him  :  in  that  beastly  fury 
He  has  been  known  to  commit  outrages, 
And  cherish  factions  :  'tis  inferr'd  to  us. 
His  days  are  foul,  and  his  drink  dangerous. 

1  Sen.  He  dies. 

Alcib.  Hard  fate  !  he  might  have  died  in  war. 
My  lords,  if  not  for  any  parts  in  him, 
(Though  his  right  arm  might  purchase  his  own 

time. 
And  be  in  debt  to  none,)  yet,  more  to  move  yovi, 
Take  my  desei'ts  to  his,  and  join  'em  both  : 
And,  for  I  know,  yoiu-  reverend  ages  love  secu- 
rity, 
I'll  pawn  my  victories,  all  my  honour  to  you. 
Upon  his  good  returns. 
If  by  this  crime  he  owes  the  law  his  life. 
Why,  let  the  war  receiv  't  in  valiant  gore ; 
For  law  is  strict,  and  war  is  nothing  more. 

1  Sen.  We  are  for  law,  he  dies;  iirge  it  no 

more. 
On  height  of  our  displeasure  :   Friend,  or  brother, 
He  forfeits  his  own  blood  that  spills  another. 
Alcib.  Must  it  be  so?  it  must  not  be.     My 

lords, 
I  do  beseech  you,  know  me. 

2  Sen.  How? 

Alcib.  Call  me  to  your  remembrances. 

3  Sen.  What? 
Alcih.  I  cannot  think  but  your  age  has  forgot 

me ; 
It  could  not  else  be  I  should  prove  so  base, 
To  sue,  and  be  denied  such  common  grace  : 
My  wounds  ache  at  you. 

1  Sen.  Do  you  dare  our  anger  ? 
'Tis  in  few  words,  but  spacious  in  effect ; 
We  banish  thee  for  ever. 

Alcib.  Banish  me  ? 

Banish  your  dotage ;  banish  usury, 
That  makes  the  senate  ugly. 

1  Sen.  If,  after  two  days'  shine  Athens  con- 
tain thee, 
Attend  our  weightier  judgment.     And,  not  to 

swell  our  spirit, 
He  shall  be  executed  presently. 

\_Exeunt  Senators. 
Alcib.  Now  the  gods  keep  you  old  enough ; 
that  you  may  live 
Only  in  bone,  that  none  may  look  on  you ! 
I'm  worse  than  mad :  I  have  kept  back  their  foes, 
While  they  have  told  their  money,  and  let  out 

"  Alune  is  generallj  inserted  here  "to  comi'lete  the  mea- 
sure." 


Act  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SOENK    VI. 


Their  coin  upon  large  interest ;  I  myself, 
Rich  only  in  large  hurts : — All  those,  for  this  ? 
Is  this  the  balsam,  that  the  usuring  senate 
Pours  into  captains'  wounds  ?     Banishment  ? 
It  comes  not  ill ;  I  hate  not  to  be  banish'd ; 
It  is  a  cause  worthy  my  spleen  and  fury, 
That  I  may  strike  at  Athens.     I'll  cheer  up 
My  discontented  troops,  and  lay  for  hearts. 
'Tis  honour  with  most  lands  to  be  at  odds ; 
Soldiers  should  brook  as  little  wrongs  as  gods.  ■' 

[Exit. 

SCENE  VI. — A  magnificent  Room  in  Timon's 
House. 

Music.     Tables  set    out :    Servants    attending. 
Enter  divers  Lords,  at  several  doors. 

1  Lord.  The  good  time  of  day  to  you,  sir. 

2  Lord.  I  also  wish  it  to  you.  I  think  this 
honourable  lord  did  but  try  us  this  other  day. 

1  Lord.  Upon  that  were  my  thoughts  tiring, 
when  we  encountered :  I  hope  it  is  not  so  low 
with  liim,  as  he  made  it  seem  in  the  trial  of  his 
several  friends. 

2  Lord.  It  should  not  be,  by  the  persuasion  of 
his  new  feasting. 

1  Lord.  I  shoidd  think  so  :  He  hath  sent  me 
an  earnest  inviting,  which  many  my  near  occa- 
sions did  urge  me  to  put  off;  but  he  hath  con- 
jured me  beyond  them,  and  I  must  needs  appear. 

2  Lord.  In  like  manner  was  I  in  debt  to  my 
importunate  business,  but  he  would  not  hear  my 
excuse.  I  am  sorry,  when  he  sent  to  borrow  of 
me,  that  my  provision  was  out. 

1  Lord.  I  am  sick  of  that  grief  too,  as  I  under- 
stand how  all  things  go. 

2  Lord.  Every  man  here's  so.  What  would 
he  have  borrowed  of  you  ? 

1  Lord.  A  thousand  pieces. 

2  Lord.  A  thousand  pieces! 
1  Lord.  What  of  you? 

3  Lord.  He  sent  to  me,  sir,  —  Here  he  comes. 

Enter  Timon  a7id  Attendants. 

Tim.  With  all  my  heart,  gentlemen  both : — 
And  how  fare  you  ? 

1  Lord.  Ever  at  the  best,  hearing  well  of  your 
lordship. 

2  Lord.  The  swallow  follows  not  summer  more 
willmg  than  we  your  lordship. 

Tim.  \_Aside.'\  Nor  more  willingly  leaves  win- 
ter; such  summer-birds  are  men. — Gentlemen, 

"  Wi'  request  the  reader's  altention  to  the  passage  iu  the 
Introductory  Notice  relating  to  this  scene.  It  appears  to  us 
nut  to  liave  a  single  mark  ujiou  it  of  Shakspere's  hand. 


our  dinner  will  not  recompense  this  long  stay : 
feast  your  ears  with  the  music  awhile ;  if  they 
will  fare  so  harshly  on  the  trumpet's  sound :  we 
shall  to  't  presently. 

1  Lord.  I  hope  it  remains  not  unkindly  with 
your  lordship,  that  I  returned  you  an  empty 
messenger. 

Tim.  O,  sir,  let  it  not  trouble  you. 

2  Lord.  My  noble  lord, — 

Tim.  Ah,  my  good  friend !  what  cheer  ? 

\_The  banquet  brought  in. 

2  Lord.  My  most  honourable  lord,  I  am  e'en 
sick  of  shame,  that  when  your  lordship  this  other 
day  sent  to  me  I  was  so  unfortunate  a  beggar. 

Tim.  Think  not  on  't,  sir. 

2  Lord.  If  you  had  sent  but  two  hours  before, — 

Tim.  Let  it  not  cumber  your  better  remem- 
brance.—  Come,  bring  in  all  together. 

2  Lord.  All  covered  dishes ! 

1  Lord.  Royal  cheer,  I  warrant  you, 

3  Lord.  Doubt  not  that,  if  money,  and  the 
season,  can  yield  it. 

1  Lord.  How  do  you?  What's  the  news? 
3  Lord.  Alcibiades  is  banished :  Hear  you  of  it? 
\  Sf  2  Lord.  Alcibiades  banished  I 
3  Lord.  'Tis  so,  be  sure  of  it. 

1  Lord.  How?  how? 

2  Lord.  I  pray  you,  upon  what? 

Tim.  My  worthy  friends,  will  you  draw  near? 

3  Lord.  I'll  tell  you  more  anon.  Here's  a 
noble  feast  toward. 

2  Lord.  This  is  the  old  man  still. 

3  Lord.  Will't  hold,  will't  hold? 

2  Lord.  It  does :  but  time  will — and  so — 

3  Lord.  I  do  conceive. 

Tim.  Each  man  to  his  stool,  with  that  spur  as 
he  would  to  the  lip  of  his  mistress :  your  diet 
shall  be  in  all  places  alike.  Make  not  a  city  feast 
of  it,  to  let  the  meat  cool  ere  we  can  agree  upon 
the  first  place :  Sit,  sit.  The  gods  require  our 
thanks. 

You  great  benefactors,  sprinkle  our  society 
with  thankfulness.  For  your  own  gifts  make 
yourselves  praised:  but  reserve  still  to  give  lest 
your  deities  be  despised.  Lend  to  each  man 
enough,  that  one  need  not  lend  to  another  :  for, 
were  your  godheads  to  borrow  of  men,  men 
would  forsake  the  gods.  Make  the  meat  be 
beloved,  more  than  the  man  that  gives  it.  Let 
no  assembly  of  twenty  be  without  a  score  of  vil- 
lains :  If  there  sit  twelve  women  at  the  table,  let 
a  dozen  of  them  be — as  they  are. — The  rest  of 
your  fees,  O  gods, — the  senators  of  Athens, 
together  with  the  common  lag  of  people, — what 
is  amiss  in  them,  you  gods,  make  suitable  for 

367 


Act  III.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  VI. 


destruction.     For  these  my  present  friends,  as 
they   are   to  nie   nothing,  so  in  nothing  bless 
them,  and  to  notliing  are  they  welcome. 
Uncover,  dogs,  and  lap. 
\_The  dishes  uncovered,  are  full  of  warm  water. 
Some  speak.  What  does  his  lordship  mean? 
Some  other.  I  know  not. 
Tim.  May  you  a  better  feast  never  behold, 
You  knot   of  mouth-friends!  smoke  and  luke- 
warm water 
Is  your  perfection.     This  is  Timon's  last ; 
Who  stuck  and  spangled  you  with  flatteries. 
Washes  it  off,  and  sprinkles  in  your  faces 

\_Throiimig  water  in  their  faces. 
Your  reeking  villainy.     Live  loath'd,  and  long. 
Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites. 
Courteous  destroyers,  affable  wolves,  meek  bears. 
You  fools  of  fortune,    trencher-friends,  time's 

flies, 
Cap  and  knee  slaves,  vapours,  and  minute-jacks! 
Of  man,  and  beast,  the  infinite  malady 
Crust  you  quite  o'er ! — What,  dost  thou  go  ? 
Soft,   take    thy   physic    first — thou  too,  —  and 
thou ; — 
\_throws  the  dishes  at  them,  and  drives  them  out. 


Stay,  I  will  lend  tliee  money,  borrow  none. — 
What,  all  in  motion  ?     Henceforth  be  no  feast. 
Whereat  a  villain's  not  a  welcome  guest. 
Burn,  house  ;  sink,  Athens  !  henceforth  hated  be 
Of  Timon,  man,  and  all  humanity.  \_Exit. 

Re-enter  the  Lords,  with  other  Lords,  and 
Senators. 

1  Lord.  How  now,  my  lords  ? 

2  Lord.  Know  you  the  quality  of  lord  Timon's 
fury  ? 

3  Lord.  Pish!  did  you  see  my  cap? 

4  Lord.  I  have  lost  my  gown. 

3  Lord.  He's  but  a  mad  lord,  and  nought 
but  luunour  sways  him.  He  gave  me  a  jewel 
the  other  day,  and  now  he  has  beat  it  out  of  my 
hat ; — Did  you  see  my  jewel? 

4  Lord.  Did  you  see  my  cap  ? 
2  Lord.  Here  'tis. 

4  Ljord.  Here  lies  my  gown. 

1  Lord.  Let's  make  no  stay. 

2  Jjord.  Lord  Timon's  mad. 

3  Lord.  I  feel 't  upon  my  bones. 

4  Lord.  One  day  he  gives  us  diamonds,  next 

day  stones.  [Exeunt. 


n(V''^ 


[The  Parthenon.] 


368 


ILLUSTRATION   OF  ACT  IIL 


'  Scene  VI. — "  Burn  house;  smh,  Alhenn  !  hence- 
forth hilled  he 
Of  Timo/i,  7n(in  and  all  hutmmity.''^ 

Plutarch  distinctly  records  the  circumstance 
which  converted  the  generous  Timon  into  a  misan- 
thrope. We  subjoin  from  North's  translation  the 
entire  passage  relating  to  Timon  : — 

"  Antonius  forsook  the  city  (Alexandria)  and 
company  of  his  friends,  and  built  him  a  house  in  the 
sea,  by  the  Isle  of  Pharos,  upon  certain  forced 
mounts  which  he  caused  to  be  cast  into  the  sea,  and 
dwelt  there,  as  a  man  that  banished  himself  from 
all  men's  company  :  saying  that  he  would  lead  Ti- 
mon's  life,  because  he  had  the  like  wrong  offered 
l)im,  that  was  afore  offered  unto  Timon ;  and  that 
Jor  the  utithankfulness  of  those  he  had  done  good  unto, 
and  whom  he  took  to  be  his  friends,  he  U'cis  anr/rj/  with 
all  men,  and  would  trust  no  man.  This  Timon  was  a 
citizen  of  Athens,  that  lived  about  the  war  of  Pelo- 
ponnesus, as  appeareth  by  Plato,  and  Aristophanes' 
comedies:  in  the  which  they  mocked  him,  calling 
Lim  a  viper,  and  malicious  man  unto  mankind,  to 
shun  all  other  men's  companies  but  the  company 
of  young  Alcibiades,  a  bold  and  insolent  youth, 
whom  he  would  greatly  feast,  and  make  much  of, 
and  kissed  him  very  gladly.  Apemantus  pondering 
at  it,  asked  him  the  cause  what  he  meant  to  make 
so  much  of  that  young  man  alone,  and  to  hate  all 
others:  Timon  answered  him,  'I  do  it,'  said  he, 
because  I  know  that  one  day  he  shall  do  great 
mischief  unto  the  Athenians.  This  Timon  some- 
times would  have  Apemantus  in  his  company,  be- 
cause he  was  much  like  to  his  nature  and  conditions, 
and  also  followed  him  in  manner  of  life.  On  a 
time  when  they  solemnly  celebrated  the  feasts  called 


Chooe  at  Athens,  (to  wit,  the  feasts  of  the  dead, 
where  they  made  sprinklings  and  sacrifices  for  the 
dead,)  and  that  they  two  then  seated  together  by 
themselves,  Apemantus  said  unto  the  other:  '  O, 
here  is  a  trim  banquet,  Timon.'  Timon  answered 
again,  'Yea,'  said  he,  'so  thou  wert  not  here.'  It 
is  reported  of  him  also,  that  this  Timon  on  a  time 
(the  people  being  assembled  in  the  market-place 
about  despatch  of  some  affairs)  got  up  into  the  pul- 
pit for  orations,  where  the  orators  commonly  used 
to  speak  unto  the  people  ;  and  silence  being  made, 
every  man  listening  to  hear  what  he  would  say,  be- 
cause it  was  a  wonder  to  see  him  in  that  place;  at 
length  he  began  to  speak  in  this  manner : — '  My 
lords  of  Athens,  I  have  a  little  yard  in  my  house 
where  there  groweth  a  fig-tree,  on  the  which  many 
citizens  have  hanged  themselves ;  and  because  I 
mean  to  make  some  building  upon  that  place,  I 
thought  good  to  let  you  all  understand  it,  that  be- 
fore the  fig-tree  be  cut  down,  if  any  of  you  be  des- 
perate, you  may  there  in  time  go  hang  j'ourselves.' 
He  died  in  the  city  of  Thales,  and  was  buried  upon 
the  sea-side.  Now  it  chanced  so,  that  the  sea 
getting  in,  it  compassed  his  tomb  round  about,  that 
no  man  could  come  to  it ;  and  upon  the  same  was 
written  this  epitaph  : — 

'  Here  lies  a  wretched  corse,  of  wretched  soul  bereft, 
Seek   not   my    niime:    a  plague  consume    you   wicked 
wretches  left.' 

It  is  reported  that  Timon  himself  when  he  lived 
made  this  epitaph ;  for  that  which  was  commonly 
rehearsed  was  not  his,  but  made  by  the  poet  Calli- 
machus  : — 

'  Here  lie  I,  Timon,  who  alive  all  living  men  did  hate. 
Pass  by  and  curse  thy  fill ;  but  pass,  and  stiy  not  here 
thy  gate.'  " 


Traokpiks. — Vol.  I.        3  B 


369 


[Walls  of  Athens;  restored.] 


ACT  IV 


SCENE  I.—  Witlwut  the  Walls  of  Alliens. 

Eriter  Timon. 

Tim.  Let  me  look  back  upon  thee.     O  thou 
wall, 
That  girdles  in  those  wolves,  dive  in  the  earth, 
And  fence  not  Athens !"     Matrons  turn,  incon- 
tinent ! 
Obedience  fail  in  children  !     Slaves  and  fools 
Pluck  the  grave  wrinkled  Senate  from  the  bench. 
And  minister  in  their  steads !    To  general  filths 
Convert,''  o'  the  instant,  green  Virginity — 

*  This  passage  is  pointed  as  follows  in  all  modern  editions : — 
"  Let  me  look  back  upon  thee,  O  thou  wall. 
That  u;irdlest  in  those  wolves !     Dive  in  the  earth, 
And  fence  not  Athens  !  " 
We   follow  tlie  punctuation  of  the  original.     When  Timon 
says,   "let  me  look  back  upon  thee,"   lie  apostrophizes  the 
city  generally — the  seat  of  his  splendour  and  his  misery.     To 
say  nothing  of  the  metrical  beauty  of  the  pause  after  thee, 
there  is  much  greater  force  and  propriety,  as  it  appears  to  us, 
in  the  arrangement  which  we  adopt. 

b  Convert  is  here  used  in  the  sense  of  turn — turn  yourself 
"  green  virginity."    So  in  Ben  Jonson's  '  Cxnthia's  Revels  :' — 

"  O  which  way  shall  I  first  convert  myself." 
Giffbrd,  in  a  note  on  this  passage,  mentions  that  the  word 
occurs  in  this  sense  in  the  old  translation  of  the  Bible : — 
'•  Howbeit,  after  this  Jeroboam  converted  not  from  his  wicked 
ways." 

370 


Do  't  in  your   parent's  eyes !     Bankrupts,  hold 

fast ; 
Rather  than  render  back,  out  with  your  knives. 
And   cut  your   trusters'  throats  I     Bound   ser- 
vants, steal ! 
Large-handed  robbers  your  grave  masters  are, 
And  pill  by  law !     Maid,  to  thy  master's  bed ; 
Thy  mistress  is  o'  the  brothel !     Son  of  sixteen, 
Pluck  the  lin'd  crutch  from  thy  old  limping  sire. 
With  it  beat  out  his  brains  !     Piety  and  fear. 
Religion  to  the  gods,  peace,  justice,  truth. 
Domestic  awe,  night  rest,  and  neighbourhood. 
Instruction,  manners,  mysteries,  and  trades, 
Degrees,  observances,  customs,  and  laws. 
Decline  to  your  confounding  contraries, 
And  yet  confusion  live! — Plagues,  incident  to 

men, 
Your  potent  and  infectious  fevers  heap 
On  Athens,  ripe  for  stroke  !    Thou  cold  sciatica, 
Cripple  our  senators,  that  their  limbs  may  halt 
As  lamely  as  their  manners !     Lust  and  liberty 
Creep  in  the  minds  and  marrows  of  our  youth ; 
That  'gainst  the  stream  of  virtue  they  may  strive. 
And  drown  themselves  in  riot!     Itches,  blains, 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  III. 


Sow  all  the  Athenian  bosoms ;  and  their  crop 
Be  general  leprosj' !     Breath  infect  breath; 
That  their  society,  as  their  friendship,  may 
Be  merely  poison  !     Nothing  I  '11  bear  from  thee, 
Bnt  nakedness,  thon  detestable  town  ! 
Take  thou  that  too,  with  multiplying  banns  ! 
Timon  will  to  the  woods ;  where  he  shall  find 
The  unkindest  beast  more  kinder  than  mankind. 
The  gods  confound  (hear  me,  you  good  gods  all,) 
The  Athenians  both  within  and  out  that  wall ! 
And  grant,    as  Timon   grows,   his   hate    may 

grow 
To  the  whole  race  of  mankind,  high  and  low ! 
Amen.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Athens.     j4  Room  in  Timon's 
House. 

Enter  Flavius,  with  Two  or  Three  Servants. 
1    Serv.  Hear  you,  master  steward,  where's 
our  master  ? 
Are  we  undone  ?  cast  off?  nothing  remaining? 
Flav.  Alack,  my  fellows,  what  should  I  say 
to  you  ? 
Let  me  be  recorded  by  the  righteous  gods, 
I  am  as  poor  as  you. 

1  Serv.  Such  a  house  broke  ! 

So  noble  a  master  fallen !     All  gone  !  and  not 
One  friend  to  take  his  fortune  by  the  arm. 
And  go  along  with  him  ! 

2  Serv.  As  we  do  turn  our  backs 
From  our  companion  thrown  into  his  grave. 

So  his  familiars  to  his  buried  fortunes 
Slink  all  away  ;  leave  their  false  vows  with  him. 
Like  empty  purses  pick'd  :  and  his  poor  self, 
A  dedicated  beggar  to  the  air, 
With  his  disease  of  all-shunn'd  poverty. 
Walks,   like    contempt,    alone. — More    of  our 
fellows. 

Enter  other  Servants. 

Flav.  All   broken    implements    of  a   ruin'd 
house. 

3  Serv.  Yet  do  our  hearts  wear  Timon 's  livery. 
That  see  I  by  our  faces ;  we  are  fellows  still, 
Serving  alike  in  sorrow  :  Leak'd  is  our  bark  ; 
And  we,  poor  mates,  stand  on  the  dying  deck, 
Hearing  the  surges  threat :  we  must  all  part 
Into  this  sea  of  air. 

Flav.  Good  fellows  all. 

The  latest  of  my  wealth  I'll  share  amongst  you. 
Wherever  we  shall  meet,  for  Timon's  sake, 
Let's  yet   be  fellows;    let's   shake  our  heads, 

and  say. 
As  'twere  a  knell  unto  our  master's  fortimes, 


'  We  have   seen   better  days.'     Let  each  take 
some;  [^Giving  them  money. 

Nay,  put  out  all  your  hands.     Not  one  word 
more : 

Thus  part  we  rich  in  sorrow,  parting  poor. 

[^Exeunt  Servants. 

O,  the  fierce"  wretchedness  that  glory  brings  us! 

Who  would  not  wish  to  be  from  wealth  exempt. 

Since  riches  point  to  misery  and  contempt? 

Who'd  be  so  mock'd  with  glory  ?  or  to  live 

But  in  a  dream  of  friendship? 

To  have  his  pomp,  and  all  what  state  compounds, 

But  only  painted,  like  his  varnish'd  friends? 

Poor  honest  lord,  brought  low  by  his  own  heart ; 

Undone  by  goodness  !    Strange,  unusual  blood,'' 

When  man's  worst  sin  is,  he  does  too  much  good ! 

Who  then  dares  to  be  half  so  kind  again  ? 

For  bounty,  that  makes   gods,   does   still  mar 
men. 

My  dearest  lord, — ^bless'd  to  be  most  accurs'd, 

Rich,  only  to  be  wretched — thy  great  fortunes 

Are  made  thy  chief  afflictions.    Alas,  kind  lord ! 

He's  flung  in  rage  from  this  ungrateful  seat 

Of  monstrous  friends : 

Nor  has  he  with  him  to  supply  his  life, 

Or  that  which  can  command  it. 

I'll  follow,  and  inquire  him  out : 

I'll  ever  serve  his  mind  with  my  best  will ; 

Whilst  I  have  gold  I'll  be  his  steward  still.  *^ 

lExit. 

SCENE  Ul.—The  Woods. 

Enter  Timon. 
Tim.  O  blessed  breeding  sun,  draw  from  the 
earth 
Rotten  humidity  ;  below  thy  sister's  orb 
Infect  the  air!  Twinn'd  brothers  of  one  womb, — 
Whose  procreation,  residence,  and  birth. 
Scarce  is   dividant, — touch  them  with   several 

fortunes ; 
The  greater  scorns  the  lesser  :  Not  nature, 
To  whom  aU  sores  lay  siege,  can  bear  great  for- 
tune. 
But  by  contempt  of  nature  : 

»  Fierce — violent,  excessive.  Ben  Jonson  lias  "fierce  cre- 
dulity." 

ii  ii/ood— natural  disposition.  (See  note  on  Cymbeline, 
Act  I.  Scene  i.) 

«  What  a  remarkable  contrast  these  twenty-two  lines  of  the 
Steward's  speech  ofler  to  the  preceding  part  of  tlie  scene ! 
They  contain  four  rhyming  couplets,  and  four  broken  lines. 
Steevens  manufactures  three  lines  into  two  after  the  following 
fashion : — 

"  Of  monstrous  friends :  nor  has  he  with  him  to 

Supply  his  life,  or  that  which  can  command  it." 

Steevens  has  certainly  contrived  to  produce  two  lines  of  leu 

syllables  each:  but  his  "regulation"   has  made  the  passage 

more  unlike  Shakspere  even  than  it  w.is  in  its  original  lorni. 

371 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  III 


Raise  me  this  beggar,  and  deny  't  that  lord  ; 

The  senator  shall  bear  contempt  hereditary, 

The  beggar  native  honour  : 

It  is  the  pastm-e  lards  the  brother's  sides. 

The  want  that  makes  him  lean."     Who  dares, 

who  dares, 
In  purity  of  manhood  stand  upright. 
And  say,  '  This  man's  a  flatterer'  ?     If  one  be, 
So  are  they  all ;  for  every  grize ''  of  fortune 
Is  smooth'd  by  that  below  :  the  learned  pate 
Ducks  to  the  golden  fool :  All  is  oblique  ; 
There  's  nothing  level  in  our  cursed  natures, 
But  direct  villainy.     Therefore,  be  abhorr'd 
All  feasts,  societies,  and  throngs  of  men  ! 
His  semblable,  yea,  himself,  Timon  disdains  : 
Destruction  fang  mankind! — Earth,  yield   me 

roots !  \_Diggin(j. 

Who  seeks  for  better  of  thee,  sauce  his  palate 
With  thy  most  opei-ant  poison !     What  is  here  ? 
Gold  ?  yellow,  glittering,  precious  gold  ? 
No,  gods,  I  am  no  idle  votarist. 
Roots,  you  clear  heavens  !     Thus  much  of  this, 

will  make 
Black,  white ;  foul,  fair  ;  wrong,  right  ; 
Base,  noble;  old,  young;  coward,  valiant. 
Ha,  you  gods !  why  this?    What  this,  you  gods  ? 

Why  this 
Will  lug  your  priests  and  servants  from  your 

sides ; 
Pluck    stout  men's   pillows   from   below   their 

heads  :  •= 
This  yellow  slave 


'  Tliere  is  consideraVile  obscurity  in  all  this  passage,  both 
in  the  progress  of  the  thought  and  the  form  of  expression.  It 
appears  to  us  that  it  may  be  simplified  by  bearing  iu  mind 
that  one  idea  runs  through  the  whole  from  the  comraeuee- 
ment,  "  twinn'd  brothers"  down  to  "  the  want  that  makes  him 
lean."  Touch  the  twinn'd  brothers  with  several  fortunes, 
that  is,  with  different  fortunes,  and  the  greater  scorns  the 
lesser.  The  poet  then  interposes  a  reflection  tliat  man's  nature, 
obnoxious  as  it  is  to  all  miseries,  cannot  bear  great  fortune 
wiihuut  contempt  of  kindred  nature.  The  greater  and  the 
lesser  brothers  now  change  places: — 

"  Raise  me  this  beggar  and  deny  't  that  lord." 
This  word  deny't  was  changed  by  Warburton  into  denude. 
Coleridge  says  "  Deny  is  here  clearly  equal  to  withliold  ;  and 
the  it  (quite  in  the  genius  of  vehement  conversation,  which 
a  syntaxist  explains  by  ellipses  and  subauditurs  in  a  Greek  or 
Latin  classic,  yet  triumphs  over  as  ignorances  in  a  contem- 
porary) refers  to  accidental  and  artificial  rank  or  elevation, 
implied  iu  the  verb  raise."  Tlie  lord  is  now  despised,  the 
beggar  now  honoured  ;  and  the  poet  goes  on  to  show  tliat  the 
ditterence  of  property  is  the  sole  cause  of  the  difference  of 
estimation.  He  puts  this  in  the  most  contemptuous  way, 
making  the  power  of  feeding  and  fattening  constitute  the 
great  distinction  between  the  brother,  whose  pasture  lards 
his  sides,  and  hijn,  the  other  brother,  whose  want  produces 
leanness.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  all  the  emen- 
dations that  have  been  pi'oposed  for  the  concluding  lines  of 
this  passage.    Warburton  would  read, — 

"  It  is  the  pasture  lards  the  wether's  sides." 

•■  Chize,  greese,  griece,  gree,  are  all  words  expressing  a 
step — a  degree. 

»  Stout  means  here,  in  health.  There  was  a  notion  that 
the  departure  of  the  dying  was  rendered  easier  by  removing 
the  pillow  from  under  their  heads. 

372 


Will  knit  and  break  religions ;  bless  the  accurs'd ; 
Make  the  hoar  leprosy  ador'd;  place  thieves, 
And  give  them  title,  knee,  and  approbation. 
With  senators  on  the  bench  :  this  is  it. 
That  makes  the  wappen'd  widow  wed  again  : 
She,  whom  the  spital-house  and  ulcerous  sores 
Would  cast  the  gorge  at,  this  embalms  and  spices 
To  the  April-day  again."*   Come,  damned  earth. 
Thou  common  whore  of  mankind,  that  put'st 

odds 
Among  the  rout  of  nations,  I  will  make  thee 
Do  thy  right  nature. — \_March  afar  ojf.'] — Ha  ! 

a  drum  ? — Thou  'rt  quick, 
But  yet  I'll  bury  thee  :  Thou'lt  go,  strong  thief, 
When  gouty  keepers  of  thee  cannot  stand  : — 
Nay,  stay  thou  out  for  earnest. 

\_Keepmg  some  gold. 

Enter  Alcibiades,  tvith  drum  and  fife,  in  warlilce 
manner;  Phryni.\  a?i(Z  Timandra. 

Alcib.  Speak,  what  art  thou  there  1 
Tim.  A  beast,  as  thou  art.     The  canker  gnaw 
thy  heart, 
For  showing  me  again  the  eyes  of  man  ? 

Alcib.  What  is  thy  name?     Is  man  so  hateful 
to  thee. 
That  art  thyself  a  man  ? 

Tim.  I  am  misanthropos,  and  hate  mankind. 
For  thy  part,  I  do  wish  thou  wert  a  dog. 
That  I  might  love  thee  something. 

Alcib.  I  know  thee  well ; 

But  in  thy  fortunes  am  unlearn 'd  and  strange. 
Tim.  I  know  thee  too;  and  more,  than  that 
I  know  thee, 
I  not  desire  to  know.     Follow  thy  drinn  ; 
With    man's    blood    paint  the  ground,  gules, 

gules : 
Religious  canons,  civil  laws  are  cruel ; 
Then  what  should  war  be  ?     This  fell  whore  of 

thine 
Hath  in  her  more  destruction  than  thy  sword, 
For  all  her  cherubin  look. 

Phrg.  Thy  lips  rot  off! 

2'im.  I  will  not  kiss  thee  ;  then  the  rot  returns 
To  thine  own  lips  again. 

Alcib.  How  came   the   noble  Timon  to  this 

change  ? 
Tim.  As  the  moon  does,  by  wanting  light  to 
give  : 
But  then  renew  I  could  not,  like  the  moon ; 
There  were  no  suns  to  borrow  of. 


»  The  April-day  is  not  the  fool's  day,  as  Johnson  imagined ; 
but  simply  the  spring-time  of  life.  Shakspere  himself  has, 
in  a  sonnet : — 

"  Calls  back  the  lovely  April  of  her  prime." 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[.SCKNE  III. 


Alcib.  Noble  Timou,  what  friendship  may  I 
do  thee? 

Tim.  None,  but  to  maintain  my  opinion. 
Alcib.  What  is  it,  Timon  ? 
Tim.  Promise    me    friendship,    but   perform 
none  :  If  tliou  wilt  not  promise,  the  gods  plague 
thee,  for  thou  art  a  man  !  if  thou  dost  perform, 
confound  thee,  for  thou  'rt  a  man  !  * 

Alcib.    I    have    heard  in    some    sort   of  tliy 

miseries. 
Tim.  Thou  saw'st  them,  when  I  had  prosperity. 
Alcib.  I  see  them  now ;  then  was  a  blessed 

time. 
Tim.  As  thine  is   now,  held  with  a  brace  of 

harlots. 
Timan.  Is  this  the  Athenian  minion,  whom 
the  world 
Voic'd  so  regardfully? 

Tim.  Art  thou  Timandra  1 

Timan.  Yes. 

Tim.  Be  a  whore  still  !     They  love  thee  not 
that  use  thee. 
Give  them  diseases,  leaving  with  thee  their  lust. 
Make  use  of  thy  salt  hours  :  season  the  slaves 
For  tubs  and  baths ;  bring   down  rose-cheeked 

youth 
To  the  tub-fast  and  the  diet. 

Timan.  Hang  thee,  monster  ! 

Alcib.  Pardon  him,  sweet  Timandra  ;  for  his 
wits 
Are  drown'd  and  lost  in  his  calamities. 
I  have  but  little  gold  of  late,  brave  Timon, 
The  want  whereof  doth  daily  make  revolt 
In  my   penurious   band :    I   have   heard,    and 

griev'd. 
How  cursed  Athens,  mindless  of  thy  worth. 
Forgetting   thy   great   deeds,   when  neighbour 

states, 
But  for  thy  sword  and  fortune,  trod  vipon  them, — 
Tim.  I  prithee  beat  thy  drum,  and  get  thee 

gone. 
Alcib.  I  am  thy  friend,  and  pity  thee,  dear 

Timon. 
Tim.  How  dost  thou  pity  him,  whom    thou 
dost  ti'ouble? 
I  had  rather  be  alone. 

Alcib.  AVhy,  fare  thee  well : 
Here's  some  gold  for  thee. 

Tim.  Keep  't,  I  cannot  eat  it. 

Alcib.  When  I  have  laid  proud  Athens  on  a 

heap, — 
Tim.  Warr'st  thou  'gainst  Athens? 

•  This  speech  which,  following  the  original,  we  print  as 
prose,  has  been  "  regulated"  into  verse  in  the  modern  edi- 
tions.    (See  Introductory  Notice.) 


Alcib.  Ay,  Timon,  and  have  cause. 

Tim.  The  gods  confound  them  all  in  thy  con- 
quest; and  thee  after,  when  thou  hast  con- 
quer d  ! 

Alcib.  Why  me,  Timon? 
Tim.  That,  by  killing  of  villains,  thou  wast 
born  to  conquer  my  country.* 
Put  up  thy  gold  :   Go  on, — here's  gold, — go  on ; 
Be  as  a  planetary  plague,  when  Jove 
Will  o'er  some  high-vic'd  city  hang  his  poison 
In  the  sick  air :  Let  not  thy  sword  skip  one : 
Pity  not  honour'd  age  for  his  white  beard. 
He's  an  usurer:  Strike  me  the  counterfeit  ma- 
tron ; 
It  is  her  habit  only  that  is  honest. 
Herself 's  a  bawd:  Let  not  the  virgin's  cheek 
Make  soft  thy  trenchant  sword;  for  those  milk 

paps, 
That  through  the  window-bars  bore  at  men's 

eyes, 
Are  not  within  the  leaf  of  pity  writ. 
But  set  them  down  horrible  traitors :  Spare  not 

the  babe, 
Whose  dimpled  smiles  from  fools  exhaust  their 

mercy ; 
Think  it  a  bastard,  whom  the  oi-acle 
Hath   doubtfully  pronounc'd    thy  throat   shall 

cut. 
And  mince  it  sans  remorse:''  Swear  against  ob- 
jects; 
Put  ai-mour  on  thine  ears,  and  on  thine  eyes; 
Whose  proof,  nor  yells  of  mothers,  maids,  nor 

babes, 
Nor  sight  of  priests  in  holy  vestments  bleeding, 
Shall  pierce  a  jot.     There's  gold  to  pay  thy  sol- 
diers : 
Make  large  confusion ;  and,  thy  fury  spent, 
Confounded  be  thyself!  Speak  not,  be  gone. 
Alcib.  Hast  thou  gold  yet?   I'll  take  the  gold 
thou  giv'st  me, 
Not  all  thy  counsel. 

Tim.  Dost  thou,  or  dost  thou  not,  heaven's 

curse  upon  thee  I 
P/ir.   ^   Timan.     Give    us    some  gold,    good 

Timon  :  Hast  thou  more  ? 
2^im.  Enough  to  make  a  whore  forswear  her 
trade, 

*  The  same  principle  has  been  pursued  in  the  passage 
before  us.  The  metre  hammered  out  of  Steevens'  smithy  is 
certainly  a  curiosity  : — 

"  Tim.  The  gods  confound  tliem  all  i'  thy  conquest ;  and 
Thee  after,  when  thou  hast  conquer'd  : 

Alcib.  Whv  me,  Timon  ? 

Tim.     That 
By  killing  villains,  thou  wast  born  to  conquer 
My  country." 

''  An  allusion  to  the  'Tale  of  Qidipus,'  according  to 
Johnson. 

373 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


And  to  make  wliores,  a  bawd.      Hold  up,  you 

sluts, 
Your  aprons  mountant :  You  are  not  oathable, — 
Although,  1  know,  you'll  swear,  terribly  swear. 
Into  strong  shudders  and  to  heavenly  agues. 
The  immortal  gods  that  hear  you, — spare  your 

oaths, 
ril  trust  to  your  conditions  :  Be  whores  still; 
And  he  whose  pious  breath  seeks  to  convert  you. 
Be  strong  in  whore,  allure  him,  burn  him  Tip ; 
Let  your  close  fire  predominate  his  smoke. 
And  be  no  turncoats :  Yet  may  your  pains,  six 

months, 
Be  quite  contrary :  And  thatch  your  poor  thin 

roofs 
With   burdens  of  the  dead ; — some  that  were 

hang'd. 
No  matter : — wear   them,    betray  with   them : 

whore  still; 
Paint  till  a  horse  may  mire  upon  your  face  : 
A  pox  of  wrinkles ! 

Phr.    8f    Timan.    Well,   more   gold; — What 
then  ?— 
Believ't,  that  we'll  do  anything  for  gold. 

Tim.  Consumptions  sow 
In  hollow  bones  of  man ;  strike  their  shai-p  shins, 
And  mar  men's  spurring.     Crack  the  lawyer's 

voice, 
That  he  may  never  more  false  title  plead. 
Nor  sound  his  quillets  shrilly :  hoar  the  flamen 
That  scolds  against  the  quality  of  flesh. 
And  not  believes  himself:  down  with  the  nose, 
Down  with  it  flat;  take  the  bridge  quite  away 
Of  him,  that  his  particular  to  foresee. 
Smells  from  the  general  weal :  make  curl'd-pate 

ruffians  bald; 
And  let  the  imscarr'd  braggarts  of  the  war 
Derive  some  pain  from  you :  Plague  all ; 
That  your  activity  may  defeat  and  quell 
The  source  of  all  erection. — There's  more  gold : — 
Do  you  damn  others,  and  let  this  damn  you, 
And  ditches  grave  you  all ! " 

Phr.    8f    Tirnan.     More   counsel   with   more 

money,  bounteous  Timon. 
Tim.  More  whore,  more  mischief  first;  I  have 

given  you  earnest. 
Alcib.  Strike  up  the  drum  towards  Athens. 
Farewell,  Timon; 
If  I  thrive  well,  I'll  visit  thee  again. 

Tim.  If  I  hope  well,  I'll  never  see  thee  more. 
Alcib.  I  never  did  thee  harm. 
Tim.  Yes,  thou  spok'st  well  of  me. 

•  So  in  '  Chapman's  Homer's  Iliad:  ' — 

"  The  throats  of  dogs  shall  grave 

His  matily  limbs." 

374  ' 


Alcib.  Call'st  thou  that  harm? 
Tim.  Men  daily  find  it.     Get  thee  away, 
And  take  thy  beagles  with  thee. 

Alcib.  We  but  offend  him. — 

Strike. 
\_Drum  beats.     Exeunt  Alcibiades,  Phrynia, 

and  TiMANDRA. 
Tim.  That  nature,  being  sick  of  man's  un- 

kindness, 
Should  yet  be  hungry ; — Common  mother,  thou, 

^Digging. 
Whose  womb  unmeasurable,  and  infinite  breast. 
Teems,  and  feeds  all ;  whose  self-same  mettle. 
Whereof  thy  proud  child,  arrogant  man,  is  puff"d, 
Engenders  the  black  toad,  and  adder  blue, 
The  gilded  newt,  and  eyeless  venom'd  worm. 
With  all  the  abhorred  births  below  crisp  heaven 
Whereon  Hyperion's  quickening  fire  doth  shine; 
Yield  him,  who  all  the"  human  sons  doth  hate. 
From  forth  thy  plenteous  bosom,  one  poor  root! 
Ensear  thy  fertile  and  conceptions  womb. 
Let  it  no  more  bring  out  ingrateful  man ! 
Go  great  with  tigers,  dragons,  wolves,  and  bears; 
Teem  with    new  monsters,   whom  thy  upward 

face 
Hath  to  the  marbled  mansion  all  above 
Never  presented! — O,  a  root, — Dear  thanks! 
Dry  up  tliy  marrows,  vines,    and   plough-torn 

leas; 
Whereof  ingrateful  man,  with  liquorish  draughts, 
And  morsels  unctuous,  greases  his  pure  mind, 
That  from  it  all  consideration  slips ! 

Enter  Apemantus. 
More  man  ?  Plague !  plague ! 

Apem.  I  was  directed  hither:  Men  report 
Thou  dost  aff'ect  my  manners,  and  dost  use  them. 
T'im.  'Tis  then,  because  thou  dost  not  keep  a 
dog 
Whom   I    would   imitate:    Consumption   catch 
thee! 
Apem.  This  is  in  thee  a  natui-e  but  infected ;'' 
A  poor  unmanly  melancholy,  sprung 
From  change  of  fortune.     Why  this  spade?  this 

place? 
This  slave-like  habit     and  these  looks  of  care? 
Thy  ffatterers  yet  wear  silk,  drink  wine,  lie  soft; 
Hug  their  diseas'd  perfumes,  and  have  forgot 
That  ever  Timon  was.     Shame  not  these  woods, 
By  putting  on  the  cunning  of  a  carper. 


•  The.  This  is  ordinarily  printed  thy. 

•>  Infected.  So  the  original ;  the  word  has  been  chanfted 
into  affected,  the  modern  signilieation  of  wliich  is  not  exactly 
the  phraseolofiy  of  Shakspere.  Rowe  made  the  clianse  ;  and 
he  also  with  greater  propriety  altered  "from  change  of  fu- 
ture," to  "  from  change  of  fortune." 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  HI. 


Be  thou  a  flatterer  now,  and  seek  to  thrive 
By  that  whicli  has  undone  thee :  hinge  thy  knee, 
And  let  liis  very  breath,  whom  tliou'lt  observe, 
Blow  off  thy  cap;  praise  his  most  vicious  strain, 
And  call  it  excellent :  Thou  wast  told  thus : 
Thou  gav'st  thine  ears,  like  tapsters  that  bade 

welcome, 
To  knaves  and  all  approachers  :  'Tis  most  just 
That  thou  turn  rascal;  hads't  thou  wealth  again. 
Rascals  should  have 't.     Do  not  assume  my  like- 
ness. 

Tim.  Were  I  like  thee  I'd  throw  away  myself. 

jipem.  Thou   hast   cast  away  thyself,  being 
like  thyself; 
A  madman  so  long,  now  a  fool :    What,  think'st 
That  the  bleak  air,  thy  boisterous  chamberlain. 
Will  put  thy  shirt  on  warm  ?    Will  these  moist  * 

trees. 
That  have  out-liv'd  the  eagle,  page  thy  heels, 
And  skip  when  thou  point'st  out?  Will  the  cold 

brook, 
Candied  with  ice,  caudle  thy  morning  taste. 
To  cure   thy  o'er-night's  sm-feit?  Call  the  crea- 
tures,— 
Whose  naked  natures  live  in  all  the  spite 
Of   wreakful   heaven;     whose   bare   unhoused 

trunks. 
To  the  conflicting  elements  expos'd. 
Answer  mere  nature, — bid  them  flatter  thee ; 
O !  thou  shalt  find — 

Tim.  A  fool  of  thee:  Depart. 

.Apem.  I  love  thee  better  now  than  e'er  I  did. 

Tim.  I  hate  thee  worse. 

Apem.  Why? 

Tim.  Thou  flatter'st  misery. 

Apem.  I  flatter  not;  but  say  thou  art  a  caitiff". 

Tim.  W^hy  dost  thou  seek  me  out? 

Apem.  To  vex  thee. 

Tim.  Always  a  villain's  oflice,  or  a  fool's; 
Dost  please  thyself  in  't  ? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  What!  a  knave  too? 

Apem.  If  thou  didst  put  this  sour-cold  habit  on 


•  Minst.  This  epithet  was  changed  by  Hammer  to  moss'd. 
Whiter,  U|ion  his  principle  of  the  association  of  ideas,  tlius 
explains  tlie  use  of  the  word  mnisf: — "  Warm  and  moist  were 
the  ap\)ropriate  terms  in  the  days  of  Shakspeare  for  what  we 
should  now  call  an  air'd  and  a  damp  shirt.  So  John  Floriu 
('Second  Frutes,'  1591),  in  a  dialogue  between  the  master 
Tortjuato  and  his  servant  Ruspa  : — 

T.  Dispatch,  and  give  me  a  shirt  I 

R.  Here  is  one  with  rulTs. 

T.  Thou  dolt,  seest  thou  not  how  moi/st  it  is  ? 

R.  Pardon  me,  good  sir,  I  was  not  aware  of  it. 

T.  Go  into  the  kitchen  and  warme  it. 
Can  the  reader  doubt  (though  hi-  may  perhaps  smile  at  the 
association)  that  the  image  of  the  chamberlaiii  putting  the 
shirt  on   warm,  impressed  the  opposite  word  moist  on   the 
imagination  of  the  poet?" 


To  castigate  thy  pride,  'twere  well :  but  thou 

Dost  it  enforcedly;  thou'dst  courtier  be  again, 

Wert  thou  not  beggar.     Willing  misery 

Outlives  incertain  pomp,  is  crown'd  before; 

The  one  is  filling  still,  never  complete ; 

The  other,  at  high  wish :  Best  state,  contentless, 

Hath  a  distracted  and  most  wretched  being, 

Worse  than  the  worst,  content. 

Thou  shoulds't  desire  to  die,  being  miserable. 

7'i7n.  Not  by  his  breath  that  is  more  miserable. 
Thou  art  a  slave,  whom  Fortune's  tender  arm 
With  favour  never  clasp'd;  but  bred  a  dog. 
Hadst  thou,  like  us,  from  our  first  swath  pro- 
ceeded 
The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command,  thou  would'st  have  plung'd 

thyself 
In  general  riot;  melted  down  thy  youth 
In  different  beds  of  lust;  and  never  learn'd 
The  icy  precepts  of  respect,  but  follow'd 
The  sugar'd  game  before  thee.     But  myself, 
Who  had  the  world  as  my  confectionary ; 
The  mouths,  the  tongues,  the  eyes,  and  hearts 

of  men 
At  duty,  more  than  I  could  frame  employment; 
That  numberless  upon  me  stuck,  as  leaves 
Do  on  the  oak,  have  with  one  winter's  brush 
Fell  from  their  boughs,  and  left  me  open,  bare 
For  every  storm  that  blows ; — I,  to  bear  this, 
That  never  knew  but  better,  is  some  burden : 
Thy  nature  did  commence  in  suff'erance,  time 
Hath  made  thee  hard  in 't.    Why  should* st  thou 

hate  men? 
They  never  flatter'd  thee :  What  hast  thou  given  ? 
If  thou  wilt  curse,  thy  father,  that  poor  rag, 
Must  be  thy  subject;  who,  in  spite,  put  stuff" 
To  some  she  beggar,  and  compounded  thee 
Poor  rogue  hereditary.     Hence !  be  gone ! 
If  thou  hadst  not  been  born  the  worst  of  men, 
Thou  hadst  been  a  knave,  and  flatterer. 

Apem.  Art  thou  proud  yet  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  that  I  am  not  thee. 

Apem.  I,  that  I  was  no  prodigal. 

Ti?n.  I,  that  I  am  one  now; 

Were  all  the  wealth  I  have  shut  up  in  thee, 
I'd  give  thee  leave  to  hang  it.    Get  thee  gone. — 
That  the  whole  life  of  Athens  were  in  this ! 
Thus  would  I  eat  it.  [^Eating  a  root. 

Apem.  Here;  I  will  mend  thy  feast. 

[^Offering  him  something. 

Tim.   First   mend  my   company,  take   away 
thyself. 

Apem.  So  I  shall  mend  mine  own,  by  the  lack 
of  thine. 

375 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  111. 


Tim.  'Tis  not  well  mended  so,  it  is  butbotch'd ; 
If  not,  I  woiUd  it  were. 

Apem.  What  would'st  thou  have  to  Athens? 

Tim.  Thee  thither  in  a  whirlwind.     If  thou 
wilt, 
Tell  them  there  I  have  gold;  look,  so  I  have. 

Apem.  Here  is  no  use  for  gold. 

Tim.  The  best  and  truest: 

For  here  it  sleeps,  and  does  no  hired  harm. 

Apem.  Where  ly'st  o'nights,  Timon? 

Tim.  Under  that's  above  me. 

Where  feed'st  thou  o'days,  Apemantus  1 

Ajjem.  Whei'e  my  stomach  finds  meat;  or, 
rather,  where  I  eat  it. 

Tim.  'Would  poison  were  obedient,  and  knew 
my  mind ! 

Apem.  Where  would'st  thou  send  it? 

Tim.  To  sauce  thy  dishes. 

Apem.  The  middle  of  humanity  thou  never 
knewest,  but  the  extremity  of  both  ends :  When 
thou  wast  in  thy  gilt,  and  thy  perfume,  they 
mocked  thee  for  too  much  curiosity ;"  in  thy  rags 
thou  knowest  none,  but  art  despised  for  the  con- 
trary.    There's  a  medlar  for  thee,  eat  it. 

Tim.  On  what  I  hate  I  feed  not. 

Apem.  Dost  hate  a  medlar? 

Tim.  Ay,  though  it  look  like  thee. 

Apem.  An  thou  hadst  hated  meddlers  sooner, 
thou  shouldst  have  loved  thyself  better  now. 
What  man  didst  thou  ever  know  unthrift  that 
was  beloved  after  his  means  ? 

Tim.  Who,  without  those  means  thou  talk'st 
of,  didst  thou  ever  know  beloved? 

Apem.  Myself. 

Tim.  I  understand  thee;  thou  hadst  some 
means  to  keep  a  dog. 

Apem.  What  things  in  the  world  canst  thou 
nearest  compare  to  thy  flatterers? 

Tim.  Women  nearest;  but  men,  men  are  the 
things  themselves.  What  wouldst  thou  do  with 
the  world,  Apemantus,  if  it  lay  in  thy  power  ? 

Apem.  Give  it  the  beasts,  to  be  rid  of  the  men. 

Tim.  Would'st  thou  have  thyself  fall  in  the 
confusion  of  men,  and  remain  a  beast  with  the 
beasts  ? 

Apem.  Ay,  Timon. 

Tim.  A  beastly  ambition,  which  the  gods 
grant  thee  to  attain  to  !  If  thou  wert  the  lion, 
the  fox  wovdd  beguile  thee:  if  thou  wert  the 
lamb,  the  fox  would  eat  thee  :  if  thou  wert  the 
fox,  the  lion  would  suspect  thee,  when,  perad- 
venture,  thou  wert  accused  by  the  ass :  if  thou 
wert  the  ass,  thy  dulness  would  torment  thee; 

"  Curiositi/ — niceness,  delicacy. 

376 


and  still  thou  livedst  but  as  a  breakfast  to  the 
wolf :  if  thou  wert  the  wolf,  thy  greediness 
would  afflict  thee,  and  oft  thou  shouldst  hazard 
thy  life  for  thy  dinner:  wert  thou  the  unicorn, 
pride  and  wrath  woidd  confound  thee,  and  make 
thine  own  self  the  conquest  of  thy  fury:  wert 
thou  a  bear,  thou  wouldst  be  killed  by  the  horse  ; 
wert  thou  a  horse,  thou  wouldst  be  seized  by  the 
leopard:  wert  thou  a  leopard,  thou  wert  german 
to  the  lion,  and  the  spots  of  thy  kindred  were 
jurors  on  thy  life:  all  thy  safety  were  remotion; 
and  thy  defence,  absence.  What  beast  couldst 
thou  be,  that  were  not  subject  to  a  beast?  and 
what  a  beast  art  thou  already,  that  seest  not  thy 
loss  in  ti-ansformation  ? 

Apem.  If  thou  couldst  please  me  with  speak- 
ing to  me,  thou  mightst  have  hit  upon  it  here  : 
The  commonwealth  of  Athens  is  become  a  forest 
of  beasts. 

Tim.  How !  has  the  ass  broke  the  wall,  that 
thou  art  out  of  the  city? 

Aj}em.  Yonder  comes  a  poet  and  a  painter : 
The  plague  of  company  light  upon  thee !  I  will 
fear  to  catch  it,  and  give  way :  When  I  know 
not  what  else  to  do,  I'll  see  thee  again. 

Tim.  When  there  is  nothing  living  but  thee, 
thou  shalt  be  welcome.  I  had  rather  be  a  beg- 
gar's dog,  than  Apemantus. 

Apem.  Thou  art  the  cap  of  all  the  fools  alive. 

Tim.  Would  thou  wert  clean  enough  to  spit 
upon. 

Apem.  A  plague  on  thee,  thou  art  too  bad  to 
curse. 

Ti27i.  All  villains  that  do  stand  by  thee  are 
pure. 

Apem.  There   is   no  leprosy  but  what  thou 
speak 'st. 

Tim.  If  I  name  thee. — 
I  '11  beat  thee, — but  I  should  infect  my  hands. 

Apem.  I  would  my  tongue  could  rot  them  off"! 

Tim.  Away,  thou" issue  of  a  mangy  dog! 
Choler  does  kill  me,  that  thou  art  alive ; 
I  swoon  to  see  thee. 

Apem.  'Would  thou  wouldst  burst ! 

2'im.  Away, 

Thou  tedious  rogue !  I  am  sorry  I  shall  lose 
A  stone  by  thee.  [^Thrmvs  a  stone  at  him. 

Apem.  Beast! 

Tim.  Slave ! 

Apem.  Toad ! 

Tim.  Rogue,  rogue,  rogue ! 

[Apemantus  retreats  haclctuard,  as  going. 

I  am   sick  of  this   false  world;    and  will  love 

nought 
But  even  the  mere  necessities  upon  't. 


Aci  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Then,  Timon,  presently  prepare  tliy  grave ; 
Lie  where  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  may  beat 
Thy  grave-stone  daily  :  make  thine  epitaph, 
That  death  in  me  at  others'  lives  may  laugh. 
O  thou  sweet  king-killer,  and  dear  divorce 

\_Loo/chig  on  the  gold. 
'Twixt  natural  son  and  sire!  thou  bright  defiler 
Of  Hymen's  purest  bed !  thou  valiant  Mars  ! 
Thou   ever   young,   fresh,   lov'd,   and   delicate 

wooer. 
Whose  blush  doth  thaw  the  consecrated  snow 
That  lies  on  Dian's  lap  !  thou  visible  god. 
That  solder'st  close  impossibilities, 
And  mak'st  them  kiss  !  that  speak'st  with  every 

tongue. 
To  every  purpose  !  O  thou  touch  "^  of  hearts ! 
Think,  thy  slave  man  rebels ;  and  by  thy  virtue 
Set  them  into  confounding  odds,  that  beasts 
May  have  the  world  in  empire ! 

Apem.  'Would  'twere  so  ; — 

But  not  till  I  am   dead! — I'll  say,   thou  hast 

gold: 
Thou  wilt  be  throng'd  to  shortly. 

Ti7n.  Throng'd  to? 

Apem.  Ay. 

Tim.  Thy  back,  I  prithee. 

Apem.  Live,  and  love  thy  misery  ! 

Tim.  Long  live  so,  and  so  die  ! — I  am  quit. 
\_Exit  Apemantus. 
More  things  like  men  ? — Eat,  Timon,  and  abhor 
them. 

Enter  Banditti. 

1  Ban.  Where  should  he  have  this  gold?  It 
is  some  poor  fragment,  some  slender  ort  of  his 
remainder :  The  mere  want  of  gold,  and  the 
falling  from  of  his  friends,  drove  him  into  this 
melancholy. 

2  Ban.  It  is  noised  he  hath  a  mass  of  trea- 

sure. 

3  Ban.  Let  us  make  the  assay  upon  him.  If 
he  care  not  for  't,  he  will  supply  us  easily :  If 
he  covetously  reserve  it,  how  shall 's  get  it  ? 

2  Ban.  True ;  for  he  bears  it  not  about  him, 
'tis  hid. 

1  Ban.  Is  not  this  he  ? 
Banditti.  Where? 

2  Ban,  'Tis  his  description. 

3  Ban.  He  ;  I  know  him. 
Banditti.  Save  thee,  Timon. 
Tim.  Now,  thieves? 
Banditti.  Soldiers,  not  thieves. 
Tim.  Both  too  ;  and  women's  sons. 

»  Touch — touchstone. 
Tragedies. — Vol..  I.        3  C 


Banditti.  We  are  not  thieves,  but  men  that 

much  do  want. 
Tim.  Your  greatest  want  is  you  want  much  of 

meat. 
Why  should  you  want?  Behold,  the  earth  hath 

roots ; 
Within  this  mile  break  forth  a  hundred  springs : 
The  oaks  bear  mast,  the  briars  scarlet  hips ; 
The  bounteous  housewife,  nature,  on  each  bush 
Lays  her  full   mess  before  you.     Want?   why 

want  ? 
1  Ban.  We  cannot  live  on  grass,  on  berries, 

water. 
As  beasts,  and  birds,  and  fishes. 

Tim.  Nor  on  the  beasts  themselves,  the  birds, 

and  fishes ; 
You  must  eat  men.     Yet    thanks  I  must  you 

con. 
That  you  are  thieves  profess'd ;  that  you  work 

not 
In  holier  shapes :  for  there  is  boundless  theft 
In  limited  "  professions.     Rascal  thieves, 
Here's  gold :  Go,  suck  the  subtle  blood  of  the 

grape. 
Till  the  high  fever  seeth  your  blood  to  froth. 
And  so   'scape  hanging.     Trust  not   the  phy- 
sician ; 
His  antidotes  are  poison,  and  he  slays 
More   than   yovi  rob.     Take  wealth   and  lives 

together ; 
Do  villainy,  do,  since  you  protest i"  to  do't 
Like  workmen.  I'll  example  you  with  thievery  : 
The  sun's  a  thief,  and  with  his  great  attraction 
Robs  the  vast  sea  :  the  moon  's  an  arrant  thief. 
And  her  pale  fire  she  snatches  from  the  sun  : 
The  sea 's  a  thief,  whose  liquid  surge  resolves 
The  moon  into  salt  tears  :  the  earth 's  a  thief, 
That  feeds  and  breeds  by  a  compostvn-e  stolen 
From  general  excrement :  each  thing 's  a  thief. 
The  laws,  your  curb  and  whip,  in  their  rough 

power 
Have  uncheck'd  theft.'=     Love  not  yourselves  : 

away ; 
Rob   one  another.      There's  more  gold:     Cut 

throats ; 
All  that  you  meet  are  thieves:  To  Athens  go; 
Break  open  shops  ;  nothing  can  you  steal, 
But  thieves  do  lose  it :  Steal  not  less,  for  this 
I  give  you ;  and  gold  confound  you  howsoever ! 
Amen.  [Timon  retires  to  his  cave. 


'  Limited — legalized. 

•■  Protest.  The  ordinary  readinj,' is pi//M,<.  The le  appears 
no  necessity  for  the  cliange,  for  either  word  may  be  used  in 
the  sense  of,  to  declare  openly. 

■=  That  is,  the  laws,  bein<j  powerful,  have  their  theft  un- 
checked. 

377 


Act  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  III. 


3  Ban,  He  lias  almost  charmed  me  from  my 
profession,  by  persuading  me  to  it. 

1  Bctn.  'Tis  in  the  malice  of  mankind,  that  he 
thus  advises  ns ;  not  to  have  us  thrive  in  our 
mystery. 

2  Ban.  I'll  believe  him  as  an  enemy,  and  give 
over  my  trade. 

1  Ban.  Let  us  first  see  peace  in  Athens : 
There  is  no  time  so  miserable  but  a  man  may 
be  true,  [^Exeunt  Banditti. 

Enter  Flavius. 

Flav.  O  you  gods ! 
Is  yon  despis'd  and  ruinous  man  my  lord  ? 
Full  of  decay  and  failing  ?     O  monument 
And  wonder  of  good  deeds  evilly  bestow'd ! 
What  an  alteration  of  honour  has 
Desperate  want  made 

What  viler  thing  upon  the  earth,  than  friends. 
Who  can  bring  noblest  minds  to  basest  ends  : 
How  rarely  does  it  meet  with  this  time's  guise, 
When  man  was  wish'd  to  love  his  enemies : 
Grant,  I  may  ever  love,  and  rather  woo 
Those  that  would  mischief  me,  than  those  that 

do! 
He  has  caught  me  in  his  eye  :  I  will  present 
My  honest  grief  unto  him  ;  and,  as  my  lord. 
Still   serve   him   with   my   life.  —  My  dearest 
master ! 

TiMON  comes  forward  from  his  cave. 

Tim.  Away!  what  art  thou? 
Flav.  Have  you  forgot  me,  sir  ? 

Tim,.  Why  dost  ask  that?  I  have  forgot  all 
men ; 
Then,  if  thou  grant'st  thou'rt  a  man,  I  have 
forgot  thee. 
Flav.  An  honest  poor  servant  of  yours. 
Tim.  Then  I  know  thee  not. 
I  ne'er  had  honest  man  about  me  ;  ay,  all 
I  kept  were  knaves  to  serve  in  meat  to  vil- 
lains.* 
Flav.  The  gods  are  witness. 
Ne'er  did  poor  steward  wear  a  truer  grief 
For  his  undone  lord,  than  mine  eyes  for  you. 
Tim.  What,  dost  thou  weep  ? — Come  nearer: — 
then  I  love  thee. 
Because  thou  art  a  woman,  and  disclaim'st 
Flinty  mankind ;  whose  eyes  do  never  give. 
But  thorough  lust  and  laughter.  Pity's  sleeping  : 


Steevens  "  regulates ' '  this  jjassage  as  follows : — 

"  Then 

I  know  thee  not :  I  ne'er  had  honest  man 
About  me,  I;  all  that  I  Uejit  were  knaves, 
To  serve  in  meat  to  villains." 

378 


Strange  times,  that  weep  with  laughing,  not  with 

weeping ! 
Flav.  I  beg  of  you  to  know  me,   good  my 

lord, 
To  accept  my  grief,  and,  whilst  this  poor  wealth 

lasts. 
To  entertain  me  as  your  steward  still. 

I'iin.  Had  I  a  steward 
So  ti'ue,  so  just,  and  now  so  comfortable  ? 
It  almost  turns  my  dangerous  nature  wild. 
Let  me  behold  thy  face. — Surely,  this  man 
Was  born  of  woman.  — ^ 
Forgive  my  general  and  exceptless  rashness, 
You  perpetual-sober  gods !  I  do  proclaim 
One  honest  man, — mistake  me  not, — but  one ; — 
No  more,  I  pray, — and  he  's  a  steward. — 
How  fain  would  I  have  hated  all  mankind. 
And  thou  redeem'st  thyself:   But  all,  save  thee, 
I  fell  with  curses. 

Methinks,  thou  art  more  honest  now  than  wise  ; 
For  by  oppressing  and  betraying  me. 
Thou  might'st  have  sooner  got  another  service  : 
For  many  so  arrive  at  second  masters. 
Upon  their  first  lord's  neck.     But  tell  me  true, 
(For  I  must  ever  doubt,  though  ne'er  so  sure,) 
Is  not  thy  kindness  subtle,  covetous. 
If  not  a  usuring  kindness ;  and  as  rich  men  deal 

gifts. 
Expecting  in  return  twenty  for  one  ? 

Flav.  No,  my  most  worthy  master,  in  whose 

breast 
Doubt  and  suspect,  alas,  are  plac'd  too  late ; 
You  should  have  fear'd  false  times,  when  you 

did  feast : 
Suspect  still  comes  where  an  estate  is  least. 
That  which  I  show,  heaven  knows,  is  merely 

love, 
Duty  and  zeal  to  your  unmatched  mind, 
Care  of  your  food  and  living  :  and,  believe  it, 
My  most  honour'd  lord. 
For  any  benefit  that  points  to  me, 
Either  in  hope,  or  present,  I'd  exchange 
For  this  one  wish.  That  you  had  power  and 

wealth 
To  requite  me,  by  making  rich  yourself. 

Tim.  Look  thee,  'tis  so ! — Thou  singly  honest 

man. 
Here,  take  : — the  gods  out  of  my  misery 
Have  sent  thee   treasure.     Go,  live  rich,  and 

happy : 
But  thus  condition' d:   Thou  shalt   build  from 


*  The  same  art  of  "regulation"  has  been  exercised  upon 
tliis  passage.     (See  Introductory  Notice.) 


Air  IV.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


Hate  all,  curse  all :  show  chai'ity  to  none  : 

But   let    the    famisli'd   flesh     slide     from     the 

bone, 
Ere  thou  relieve  the  beggar :  give  to  dogs 
What  thou  deny'st  to  men  ;  let  prisons  swallow 

them. 
Debts  wither  them  to  nothing :"    Be  men  like 

blasted  woods, 

•  Steovens  prints  the  line  thus  : — 
"  Debts  witlier  them.     He  men  like  blasted  woods." 
Tliere  is  some  dilTerence.  we  think,  between  to  witlier,  and  to 


And  may  diseases  lick  up  their  false  bloods  ! 
And  so,  farewell,  and  tlirive. 

Flav.  O,   let  me  stay,  and  comfort  you    my 

master. 
Tim.  If  thou  hat'st  curses 
Stay  not;  fly,  whilst  thou  art  bless'd  and  free; 
Ne'er  see  thou  man,  and  let  me  ne'er  see  thee. 
\_Exeiint  severallij. 


wither  tu  nothing;  but  Steevens  stiys  '■  I  have  omitted  tin 
redundant  words,  not  only  lor  the  sake  of  metre,  but  becausi 
they  are  worthless." 


[Temple  of  Theseus.] 


y7i) 


-f  \'''V 


[Timon's  CtiM'.] 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I. — Before  Timon's  Cave. 

Enter  Poet  and  Painter;  Timon  heliind, 
unseen. 

Pain.  As  I  took  note  of  the  place,  it  cannot 
be  far  where  he  abides. 

Poet.  What 's  to  be  thought  of  him  ?  Does 
the  rumour  hold  for  true,  that  he  's  so  full  of 
gold? 

Pain.  Certain:  Alcibiades  reports  it;  Phry- 
nia  and  Timandra  had  gold  of  him  :  he  likewise 
enriched  poor  straggling  soldiers  with  great 
quantity  :  'Tis  said  he  gave  unto  his  steward  a 
mighty  sum. 

Poet.  Then  this  breaking  of  his  has  been  but 
a  try  for  his  friends. 
.380 


Pain.  Nothing  else :  you  shall  see  him  a  palm 
in  Atliens  again,  and  flourish  with  the  highest. 
Therefore,  'tis  not  amiss  we  tender  our  loves  to 
him,  in  this  supposed  distress  of  his  :  it  will 
show  honestly  in  us ;  and  is  very  likely  to  load 
our  purposes  with  what  they  travel  for,  if  it  be  a 
just  and  true  report  that  goes  of  his  having. 

Poet.  What  have  you  now  to  present  unto 
him? 

Pain.  Nothing  at  this  time  but  my  visitation  : 
only  I  will  promise  him  an  excellent  piece. 

Poet.  I  must  serve  him  so  too  ;  tell  him  of  an 
intent  that's  coming:  toward  him.'' 


'  It  is  difficult  tn  say  wliether  tliis  scene,  which  in  the 
oritiinal  is  jirinicd  as  yerse,  ouglit  to  retain  that  form.  In  all 
tlie  niodei-n  editions  it  is  given  as  prose.  It  is  certainly  im- 
)iossible  to  render  some  of  the  speeches  metrical ;  but  yet 
Hues  occur  in  them  whicli  would  appear  to  have  as  much 


v.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNK.  I. 


Pain.  Good  as  the  best. 
Promising  is  the  very  air  o'  the  time; 
It  opens  the  eyes  of  expectation  : 
Performance  is  ever  the  duller  for  his  act; 
And,  but  in  the  plainer  and  simpler  kind  of 

people, 
The  deed  of  saying  is  quite  out  of  use. 
To  promise  is  most  courtly  and  fashionable  : 
Performance  is  a  kind  of  will,  or  testament, 
Which  arg\ies  a  great  sickness  in  his  judgment 
That  makes  it. 

2"im.  Excellent  workman  !  Thou  canst  not 
paint  a  man  so  bad  as  is  thyself. 

Poet.  I  am  thinking 
What  I  shall  say  I  have  provided  for  him  : 
It  must  be  a  personating  of  himself: 
A  satire  against  the  softness  of  prosperity  ; 
With  a  discovery  of  the  infinite  flatteries 
That  follow  youth  and  opulency. 

11m.  Must  thou  needs  stand  for  a  villain  in 
thine  own  work?  Wilt  thou  whip  thine  own 
faults  in  other  men  ?  Do  so,  I  have  gold  for 
thee. 

Poet.  Nay,  let's  seek  him  : 
Then  do  we  sin  against  our  own  estate. 
When  we  may  profit  meet,  and  come  too  late. 

Pain.  True ; 
When  the  day  serves, before  black-corner'd  night. 
Find  what  thou  want'st  by  free  and  ofFer'd  light. 
Come. 

Tim.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  turn.    What  a  god 's 
gold. 
That  he  is  worshipp'd  in  a  baser  temple. 
Than  where  swine  feed! 
'Tis   thou  that  rigg'st  the  bark,   and  plough'st 

the  foam ; 
Settlest  admired  reverence  in  a  slave  : 
To  thee  be  worship  !  and  thy  saints  for  aye 
Be  crowned  with  plagues,  that  thee  alone  obey ! 
'Fit  I  meet  them.  \^Advancing. 

Poet.  Hail,  worthy  Timon ! 

Pain.  Our  late  noble  master. 

Tim.  Have   I   once  liv'd  to  see  two  honest 

men  ? 
Poet.  Sir, 
Having  often  of  your  open  bounty  tasted, 
Hearing  you  were  retir'd,  your  friends  fall'n  off, 
Whose  thankless  natures — O  abhorred  spirits  ! 


claim  to  be  considered  metiicul  as  many  others  in  this  play. 

For  example, — 

"  Poor  straggling  soldiers,  with  great  quantity." 
"  Therefore  'tis  not  amiss  we  tender  our  loves 
To  him,  in  tnis  supposed  distress  ofhis." 

We  have  no  doubt  that  tlie  speeches  of  tlie   Poet  and  the 

Painter  beginning   "Good  as  the  best,"  are  intended  to  be 

metrical,  however  rugged  they  may  appear. 


Not  all  the  whips  of  heaven  are  large  enough — 
What !  to  you  ! 

Whose  star-like  nobleness  gave  life  and  influence 
To  their  whole  being!     I'm  rapt,  and  cannot 

cover 
The  monstrous  bulk  of  this  ingratitude 
With  any  size  of  words. 

Tim.  Let   it  go  naked,  men   may  see't  the 
better : 
You,  that  are  honest,  by  being  what  you  are. 
Make  them  best  seen,  and  known. 

Pain.  He,  and  myself. 

Have  travell'd  in  the  great  shower  of  your  gifts, 
And  sweetly  felt  it. 

Tim.  Ay,  you  are  honest  men. 

Paiti.  We  are  hither  come  to   offer  you  our 

service. 
Tim.  Most  honest  men !     Why,  how  shall  I 
requite  you? 
Can  you  eat  roots,  and  drink  cold  water  ?  no. 
Both.  What  we  can  do,  we'll  do,  to  do  you 

service. 
Tim.  You  are  honest  men :  You  have  heard 
that  I  have  gold ; 
I  am  sure  you  have  :    speak   truth :   you   're 
honest  men. 
Pain.  So  it  is  said,  my  noble  lord :  but  there- 
fore 
Came  not  my  friend,  nor  I. 

Tim.  Good  honest    men  : — Thou   draw'st  a 
counterfeit 
Best  in  all  Athens  :  thou  art,  indeed,  the  best; 
Thou  counterfeit's!  most  lively^ 

Pain.  So,  so,  my  lord. 

Tim.  Even  so,  sir,  as  I  say : — And,  for  thy 
fiction,  [To  the  Poet. 

Why,   thy   verse  swells  with  stuff"  so  fine  and 

smooth. 
That  thou  art  even  natural  in  thine  art. — 
But,  for  all  this,  my  honest-natiu-'d  friends, 
I  must  needs  say  you  have  a  little  fault : 
Marry,  "tis  not  monstrous  in  you ;  neither  wish  I 
You  take  much  pains  to  mend. 

Both.  Beseech  your  honour. 

To  make  it  known  to  us. 

Tim.  You'll  take  it  ill. 

Both.  Most  thankfully,  my  lord. 
Tim.  Will  you,  indeed  ? 

Both.  Doubt  it  not,  worthy  lord. 
Tim.  There's  never  a  one  of  you  but  trusts  a 
knave, 
That  mightily  deceives  you. 

Both.  Do  we,  my  lord  ? 

Tim.  Ay,  and  you  hear  him  cog,  see  him  dis- 
semble, 

381 


Act  V.1 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[Scene  II. 


Know  his  gross  patchery,  love  him,  feed  him, 
Keep  in  your  bosom  :  yet  remain  assur'd, 
That  he's  a  made-up  villain. 

Pa'm.  I  know  none  such,  my  lord. 
Poet.  Nor  I. 

Tim.  Look  you,  I  love  you  well ;  I  '11  give  you 
gold, 
Rid  me  these  villains  from  your  companies  : 
Hang  them,  or  stab   them,  drown  them   in  a 

draught, 
Confound  them  by  some  course,  and  come  to  me, 
I'll  give  you  gold  enough. 

Both.  Name  them,  my  lord,  let's  know  them. 
Tim.  You  that  way,  and  you  this, — but  two 
in  company  : —  " 
Each  man  apart,  all  single  and  alone. 
Yet  an  arch-villain  keeps  him  company. 
If  where  thou  art,  two  villains  shall  not  be, 

[To  the  Painter. 
Come  not  near  him. — If  thou  wouldst  not  reside 

\_To  the  Poet. 
But  where  one  villain  is,  then  him  abandon. — 
Hence !  pack !  there's  gold,  ye  came  for  gold, 

ye  slaves: 
You  have  work  for  me,  there's  payment :  Hence !'' 
You  are  an  alchymist,  make  gold  of  that : — 
Out,  rascal  dogs ! 

[Exit,  heating  and  driving  them  out. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 

Enter  Flavius  and  Two  Senators. 

Flav.  It  is  vain  that  you  would  speak  with 
Tim  on  ; 
For  he  is  set  so  only  to  himself, 
That  nothing  but  himself,  which  looks  like  man. 
Is  friendly  with  him. 

1  Sen.  Bring  us  to  his  cave  : 
It  is  our  part,  and  promise  to  the  Athenians 
To  speak  with  Timon. 

2  Sen.  At  all  times  alike 

Men  ai'e  not  still  the  same  :  'Twas  time,  and 
griefs. 


"  Mason,  in  his  usual  literal  and  prosaic  manner,  proposed 
to  read,  "not  two  in  company."  The  meaning  is  amplified 
in  the  subsequent  lines — go  apart,  you  tliat  way,  and  you 
this;  still  there  are  two  in  company  —  yourself  and  tlie 
"  made-up  villain." 

"  Rid  me  these  villains  from  your  companies." 

•>  Tire  ordinary  reading  is  "  you  have  dune  work  for  me." 
Malone  says,  "  For  the  insertion  of  lire  word  dime,  wliicli  it  is 
manifest  was  omitted  by  tlie  negligence  of  the  compositor,  I 
am  aiiswerable.  Timon  in  tliis  line  addresses  the  Painter, 
wliom  he  before  called  '  excellent  jcwftmnn;'  in  the  next  tlie 
Poet."  It  appears  to  us  that  this  is  a  hasty  correction. 
Timon  has  overheard  both  the  Poet  and  the  Painter  declaring 
tluit  they  have  nothing  to  present  to  him  at  that  time  but 
promises,  and  it  is  with  bitter  irony  that  he  says  "excellent 
workman."  In  the  same  sarcastic  spirit  he  now  says,  "  You 
liave  work  for  me — there's  payment.  ' 

382 


That  fram'd  him  thus :  time,  with  his  fairer  hand. 

Offering  the  fortunes  of  his  former  days. 

The  former  man   may  make  him :  Bring  us  to 

him, 
And  chance  it  as  it  may. 

Flav.  Here  is  his  cave. — 

Peace   and   content    be   here !     Lord   Timon ! 

Timon ! 
Look  out,  and  speak  to  friends :  The  Athenians, 
By  two  of  their  most  reverend  senate,  greet  thee : 
Speak  to  them,  noble  Timon. 

Enter  Timon. 

Tim.  Thou  sun,  that  comfort'st,  burn ! — Speak, 
and  be  hang'd : 
For  each  true  word,  a  blister !  and  each  false 
Be  as  a  caut'rising  to  the  root  o'  the  tongue, 
Consimiing  it  with  speaking ! 

1  Seti.  Worthy  Timon, — 
Tim.  Of  none  but  such  as  you,  and  you  of 

Timon. 

2  Se7i.  The   senators   of  Athens  greet  thee, 

Timon. 
Tim.  I  thank  them ;  and  would   send  them 
back  the  plague. 
Could  I  but  catch  it  for  them. 

1  Se7i.  O,  forget 
What  we  are  sorry  for  ourselves  in  thee. 
The  senators,  with  one  consent  of  love, 
Entreat  thee  back  to  Athens ;  who  have  thought 
On  special  dignities,  Avhich  vacant  lie 

For  thy  best  use  and  wearing. 

2  Sen.  They  confess, 
Toward  thee,  forgetfulness  too  general,  gross : 
Which  now  the  public  body, — which  doth  seldom 
Play  the  recanter,  — feeling  in  itself 

A  lack  of  Timon's  aid,  hath  sense  withal 
Of  its  own  fall,  restraining  aid  to  Timon  ; 
And  send  forth  us,  to  make  their  sorrowed  render. 
Together  with  a  recompense  more  fruitful 
Than  their  offence  can  weigh  down  by  the  dram ; 
Ay,  even  such  heaps  and  sums  of  love  and  wealth, 
As  shall  to  thee  blot  out  what  wrongs  were  theirs, 
And  write  in  thee  the  figures  of  their  love. 
Ever  to  read  them  thine. 

Tim.  You  witch  me  in  it; 

Surprise  me  to  the  very  brink  of  tears : 
Lend  me  a  fool's  heart,  and  a  woman's  eyes, 
And  I'll  beweep  these  comforts,  worthy  senatoi's. 

1  Se7i.  Therefore,    so   please   thee   to  return 
with  us, 
And  of  our  Athens  (thine,  and  ours,)  to  take 
The  captainship,  thou  shalt  be  met  with  thanks, 
Allow'd  with  absolute  power,  and  thy  good  name 
Live  with  authority : — so  soon  we  shall  drive  back 


A<vr  v.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SrKNK  III. 


Of  Alcibiades  the  approaches  wild ; 
Who,  like  a  boar  too  savage,  doth  root  up 
His  coimtry's  peace. 

2  Sen:  And  shakes  his  threat'ning  sword 

Against  the  walls  of  Athens. 

1  Sen.  Therefore,  Timon, — 

Tim.  Well,  sir,  I  will ;  therefore,  I  will,  sir : 
Thus, — 
If  Alcibiades  kill  my  countrymen, 
Let  Alcibiades  know  this  of  Timon, 
That   Timon   cares  not.     But  if  he  sack   fair 

Athens, 
And  take  our  goodly  aged  men  by  the  beards, 
Giving  our  holy  virgins  to  the  stain 
Of  contumelious,  beastly,  mad-brain'd  war ; 
Then,   let   him   know, — and   tell  him,    Timon 

speaks  it, 
In  pity  of  our  aged,  and  our  youth, 
I  cannot  choose  but  tell  him,  that  I  care  not. 
And  let  him  tak  't  at  worst ;  for  their  knives  care 

not, 
While  you  have  throats  to  answer  :  for  myself, 
There's  not  a  whittle  in  the  unruly  camp. 
But  I  do  prize  it  at  my  love,  before 
The  reverend'st  throat  in  Athens.     So  I  leave 

you 
To  the  protection  of  the  prosperous  gods, 
As  thieves  to  keepei's. 

Flav.  Stay  not,  all 's  in  vain. 

Tim.  Why,  I  was  writing  of  my  epitaph ; 
It  will  be  seen  to-morrow  :  my  long  sickness 
Of  health,  and  living,  now  begins  to  mend. 
And  nothing  brings  me  all  things.    Go,  live  still ; 
Be  Alcibiades  your  plague,  you  his, 
And  last  so  long  enough ! 

1  Sen.  We  speak  in  vain. 

Tim.  But  yet  I  love  my  country,  and  am  not 
One  that  rejoices  in  the  common  wrack, 
As  common  bruit  doth  put  it. 

1  Sen.  That 's  well  spoke. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  my  loving  country- 
men,— 

1  Sen.  These  words  become  your  lips  as  they 

pass  through  them. 

2  Sen.  And  enter  in  our  ears  like  great  tri- 

vimphers 
In  their  applauding  gates. 

Tim.  Commend  me  to  them ; 

And  tell  them,  that,  to  ease  them  of  their  griefs. 
Their  fears  of  hostile  sti'okes,  their  aches,  losses, 
Their  pangs  of  love,  with  other  incident  throes 
That  nature's  fragile  vessel  doth  sustain 
In  life's  uncertain  voyage,  I  will  some  kindness 

do  them : 
I'll  teach  them  to  prevent  wild  Alcibiades'  wrath. 


2  Sen.  I  like  this  well,  he  will  return  again. 
Tim.  I  have  a  tree,  which  grows  here  in  my 

close. 
That  mine  own  use  invites  me  to  cut  down. 
And  shortly  must  I  fell  it :  Tell  my  friends, 
Tell  Athens,  in  the  sequence  of  degree. 
From  high  to  low  throughout,  that  whoso  please 
To  stop  affliction,  let  him  take  his  haste. 
Come  hither,  ere  my  tree  hath  felt  the  axe. 
And  hang  himself: — I  pray  you,  do  my  greeting. 
Flew.  Trouble  him  no  further,  thus  you  still 

shall  find  him. 
Tim.  Come   not   to   me   again :   but   say   to 

Athens, 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood ; 
Whom  once  a  day  with  his  embossed  froth 
The  turbulent  surge  shall  cover ;  ^  thither  come, 
And  let  my  grave-stone  be  your  oracle. — 
Lips,  let  sour  words  go  by,  and  language  end : 
What  is  amiss,  plague  and  infection  mend ! 
Graves  only  be  men's  works ;  and  death  their 

gain ! 
Sun,  hide   thy  beams!    Tmion  hath  done  his 

reign.  {_Exit  Timon, 

1  Sen.  His  discontents  are  unremoveably 
Coupled  to  nature. 

2  Se7i.  Our  hope  in  him  is  dead  :  let  us  return. 
And  strain  what  other  means  is  left  unto  us 

In  our  dear  peril. 

1  Sen.  It  requires  swift  foot,    \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  UI.—The  Walls  of  Athens. 

Enter  Two  Senators,  and  a  Messenger, 

1  Sen.  Thou  hast  painfully  discover'd;  are  his 

files 
As  full  as  thy  report  ? 

Mess.  I  have  spoke  the  least; 

Besides,  his  expedition  promises 
Present  approach. 

2  Sen.  We  stand  much  hazard,  if  they  bring 

not  Timon, 
Mess.  I   met  a   courier,    one   mine   ancient 

friend ; — 
Whom,  though  in  general  part  we  were  oppos'd. 
Yet  our  old  love  made  a  particular  force, 
And  made  us  speak  like  friends : — this  man  was 

riding 
From  Alcibiades  to  Timon 's  cave. 
With  letters  of  entreaty,  which  imported 


•  JVhom.  Tlie  original  reads  who.  Steevens  corrected  it 
to  lokich;  Malone,  to  ivlwm;  one  maintaining  that  the  turbu- 
lent surge  was  to  cover  tlie  grave,  the  other,  the  body  in  the 
grave. 

383 


Act  v.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[ScENF.s  IV.  V. 


His  fellowship  i'  the  cause  against  your  city, 
In  part  for  his  sake  mov'd. 

Enter  Senators yrom  Timon. 

1  Sen.  Here  come  our  brothers. 

3  Sen.  No  talk  of  Timon,  nothing  of  him  ex- 
pect.— 
The  enemies'  drum  is  heard,  and  fearful  scouring 
Doth  choke  the  air  with  dust :  In,  and  prepare  ; 
Ours  is  the  fall,  I  fear ;  our  foes  the  snare. 

\_Exeimt. 

SCENE  IV.— The  Woods.     TimonV  Cave,  and 
a  Tombstone  seen. 

Enter  a  Soldier,  seelcing  Timon. 

Sold.  By  all  description   this  should  be  the 

place. 
Who's  here  ?  speak,  hoa ! — No  answer  ? — What 

is  this  ? 
Timon  is  dead,  who  hath  outstretch'd  his  span  : 
Some  beast  rear'd  ^  this  ;  there  does  not  live  a 

man. 
Dead,  sure  ;  and  this  his  grave. — What's  on  this 

tomb 
I    cannot  read ;    the  character  I'll   take   with 

wax : 
Our  captain  hath  in  every  figure  skill ; 
An  ag'd  interpreter,  though  young  in  days : 
Before  proud  Athens  he's  set  down  by  this, 
Whose  fall  the  mark  of  his  ambition  is.      \_Exit. 

SCENE  Y.— Before  the  walls  of  Athens. 

Trumpets  sound.     Enter  Alcibiades  and 
Forces. 

Alcib.  Sound  to   this  coward  and  lascivious 
town 
Our  terrible  approach.  \_A  parley  sounded. 

Enter  Senators  on  the  walls. 

Till  now  you  have  gone  on,  and  fill'd  the  time 
With  all  licentious  measure,  making  your  wills 
The  scope  of  justice;  till  now,  myself,  and  such 
As  slept  within  the  shadow  of  your  power. 
Have  wander'd  with  our   travers'd  arms,   and 

breath'd 
Our  sufferance  vainly  :  Now  the  time  is  flush, 
When  crouching  marrow,  in  the  bearer  strong, 
Cries,    of   itself,    '  No   more : '    now   breathless 

wrong 
Shall  sit  and  pant  in  your  great  chairs  of  ease ; 

'Rear'd.  The  original  has  read.  The  whole  speech  is  so 
unlilce  Shakspere,  that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out 
its  weakness  and  incongruity. 

384 


And  pursy  insolence  shall  break  his  wind. 
With  fear,  and  horrid  flight.  * 

1  Se7i.  Noble,  and  young, 
When  thy  first  griefs  were  but  a  mere  conceit, 
Ere  thou  hadst  power,  or  we  had  cause  of  fear. 
We  sent  to  thee  ;  to  give  thy  rages  balm. 

To  wipe  out  our  ingratitude  Avith  loves 
Above  their  quantity. 

2  Sen.  So  did  we  woo 
Transformed  Timon  to  our  city's  love, 

By  humble  message,  and  by  promis'd  means ; 
We  were  not  all  unkind,  nor  all  deserve 
The  common  stroke  of  war. 

1  Sen.  These  walls  of  ours 
Were  not  erected  by  their  hands  from  whom 
You  have   receiv'd  your  grief:    nor   are  they 

such 
That  these  great  towers,  trophies,  and  schools 

should  fall 
For  private  faults  in  them. 

2  Sen.  Nor  are  they  living 
Who  were  the  motives  that  you  first  went  out ; 
Shame  that  they  wanted  cunning,  in  excess,  '• 
Hath  broke  their  hearts.     March,  noble  lord, 
Into  our  city  with  thy  banners  spread : 

By  decimation,  and  a  tithed  death, 

(If  thy  revenges  hunger  for  that  food. 

Which  nature  loaths,)  take  thou  the   destin'd 

tenth ; 
And  by  the  hazard  of  the  spotted  die. 
Let  die  the  spotted. 

1  Sen.  All  have  not  oflfended ; 
For  those  that  were,  it  is  not  square  to  take. 
On  those  that  are,  revenges :   crimes,  like  lands, 
Are  not  inherited.     Then,  dear  countryman. 
Bring  in  thy  ranks,  but  leave  without  thy  rage  : 
Spare  thy  Athenian  cradle,  and  those  kin 
Which,  in  the  bluster  of  thy  wrath,  must  fall 
With  those  that  have  offended  :  like  a  shepherd. 
Approach  the  fold,  and  cull  the  infected  forth. 
But  kill  not  altogether. 

2  Sen.  What  thou  wilt, 

"  We  have  adverted,  in  tlie  Introductory  Notice,  to  the 
remarkable  contrast  wliicli  this,  and  the  former  scene  be- 
tween Alcibiades  aud  the  Senate,  present,  in  tlie  structure  of 
the  verse,  to  the  harmony  of  Shakspere.  The  opening  of 
tliis  scene,  and  indeed  nearly  every  part  of  it,  superior 
though  it  be  to  the  former  scene,  dees  not  give  us  the  metre 
of  Shakspere.  We  would  try  it  by  the  test  which  Coleridge 
has  proposed  for  the  (ipening  of  the  fir-.t  part  of  Henry  VI. : — • 
"  Read  aloud  any  two  or  tliree  passages  in  blank  verse,  even 
from  Shakspeare's  earliest  dramas,  as.  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
or  Komeo  and  Juliet;  and  then  re.ad  in  the  same  way  this 
speech,  with  especial  attention  to  the  metre:  "  If  the  test 
should  fail,  we  shall  not  presume  to  add,  with  Coleridge,  "  if 
you  do  not  feel  the  impossibility  of  the  latter  having  been 
wiitten  by  Shakspeare,  all  I  dare  suggest  is,  that  you  may 
have  ears,  for  so  has  another  animal,  but  an  ear  you  cannot 
have,  mejudice" 

^  Cunning  in  this  line  is  not  used  in  an  evil  sense,  but  with 
its  ancient  meaning  of  knowledge,  wisdom ; — Excessive  shame 
that  they  have  wanted  wisdom  has  broken  their  hearts. 


Act  v.] 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS. 


[SCKNK   V. 


Thou  rather  shalt  enforce  it  with  thy  smile, 
Than  hew  to 't  with  thy  sword. 

1  Sen.  Set  but  thy  foot 
Against    our    ranipir"d  gates,     and  they   shall 

ope ; 
So  thou  wilt  send  thy  gentle  heart  before, 
To  say  thou'lt  enter  friendly. 

2  Sen.  Throw  thy  glove  ; 
Or  any  token  of  thine  honour  else, 

That  thou  wilt  use  the  wars  as  thy  redress, 
And  not  as  our  confusion,  all  thy  powers 
Shall  make  their  harbour  in  our  town,  till  we 
Have  seal'd  thy  full  desire. 

Alcib.  Then  there's  my  glove  ; 

Descend,  and  open  your  uncharged  ports; 
Those  enemies  of  Timon's,  and  mine  own. 
Whom  you  yourselves  shall  set  out  for  reproof, 
Fall,  and  no  more :  and, — to  atone  your  fears 
With  my  more  noble  meaning, — not  a  man 
Shall  pass  his  quarter,  or  offend  the  stream 
Of  regular  justice  in  your  city's  bounds, 
But  shall  be  remedied,  to  your  public  laws, 
At  heaviest  answer. 

Both.  'Tis  most  nobly  spoken. 

Alcib.  Descend,  and  keep  your  words. 

The  Senators  descend,  and  open  the  gates. 


Enter  a  Soldier. 

Sol.  My  noble  general,  Timon  is  dead  ; 
Entomb'd  upon  the  very  hem  o'  the  sea  : 
And  on  his  grave-stone  this  insculpture,  which 
With   wax    I    brought   away,    whose   soft    im- 
pression 
Interprets  for  my  poor  ignorance. 

Alcib.  [Reads.']  Here  lies  a  wretched   corse,  of  wretelietl 

soul  bereft : 
Seek  not  my  name:  A  plague  consume  you  wicked  caitiffs 

left! 
Here  lie  I  Timon  ;  who,  alive,  all  living  men  did  hate  : 
Pass  by,  and  curse  thy  fill;  but  pass  and  stay  not  here  thy 

gait. 

These  will  express  in  thee  thy  latter  spirits : 
Though  thou  abhorr'dst  in  us  our  human  griefs, 
Scorn'dst  our  brain's  flow,  and  those  our  drop- 
lets which 
From  niggard  nature  fall,  yet  rich  conceit 
Taught  thee  to  make  vast  Neptune  weep  for  aye 
On  thy  low  grave,  on  faults  forgiven.     Dead 
Is  noble  Timon  ;  of  whose  memory 
Hereafter  more. — Bring  me  into  your  city. 
And  I  will  use  the  olive  with  my  sword : 
Make  war  breed  peace  ;  make  peace  stint  war  ; 

make  each 
Prescribe  to  other,  as  each  other's  leech. 
Let  oiu'  drums  strike.  \_Exeunt. 


'■^ 


,  ii^  -^f 


fTimons  Grave. 1 


Traoedies. — Vol..  1.  3D 


S85 


jiiiiiisi" 

[Alcibiades.] 


ILLUSTRATION  OF   ACT  V. 


1  Scene  II. — "  I  have  a  tree  which  gruws  here  in 
my  closed 

We  have  referred,  in  our  Introductory  Notice,  to 
the  -ZSth  novel  of  '  The  Palace  of  Pleasure,'  as  an 
example  of  the  popular  notion  of  the  character  of 
Timon  of  Athens.  The  story  of  Timon's  feast  with 
Apemantus,  as  well  as  that  of  the  fig-tree,  is  found 
also  in  Plutarch.  (See  Illustrations  of  Act  in.) 
We  subjoin  the  'Novel'  from  'The  Palace  of 
Pleasure'  without  abridgment: — 

"  Of  the  strange  and  beastly  nature  of  Timon  of 
Atliens,  enemy  to  mankind,  with  his  death,  burial, 
and  epitaph, 

"  All  the  beasts  of  the  world  do  apply  themselves 
to  other  beasts  of  their  kind,  Timon  of  Athens  only 
excepted:  of  whose  strange  nature  Plutarch  is 
astonied,  in  the  life  of  Marcus  Antonius.  Plato 
and  Aristophanes  do  report  his  marvellous  nature, 
because  he  was  a  man  but  by  shape  only,  in  quali- 
ties he  was  tlie  capital  enemy  of  mankind,  which 
he  confessed  frankly  utterly  to  abhor  and  hate.  He 
dwelt  alone  in  a  little  cabin  in  the  fields  not  far 
from  Athens,  separated  from  all  neighbours  and 
company  :  he  never  went  to  the  city,  or  to  any  other 
habitable  place,  except  he  was  constrained:  he 
could  not  abide  any  man's  company  and  conversa- 
tion :  he  was  never  seen  to  go  to  any  man's  house, 
nor  yet  would  suffer  them  to  come  to  him.  At  the 
same  time  there  was  in  Athens  another  of  like  quality, 
called  Apemantus,  of  the  very  same  nature,  different 
from  the  natural  kind  of  man,  and  lodged  likewise  in 
the  middle  of  the  fields.  On  a  day  they  two  being 
386 


alone  together  at  dinner,  Apemantus  said  unto  him, 
'  O,  Timon,  what  a  pleasant  feast  is  this  !  and  what 
a  merry  company  are  we,  being  no  more  but  thou 
and  I !'  '  Nay,  (quoth  Timon,)  it  would  be  a  merry 
banquet  indeed,  if  there  were  none  here  but  myself.' 
"  Wherein  he  showed  how  like  a  beast  (indeed) 
he  was :  for  he  could  not  abide  any  other  man, 
being  not  able  to  suffer  the  company  of  him,  which 
was  of  like  nature.  And  if  by  chance  he  happened 
to  go  to  Athens,  it  was  only  to  speak  with  Alcibiades, 
who  then  was  an  excellent  captain  there,  whereat 
many  did  marvel;  and  therefore  Apemantus  de- 
manded of  him,  why  he  spake  to  no  man,  but  to  Alci- 
biades? '  I  speak  to  him  sometimes,'  said  Timon, 
'  because  I  know  that  by  his  occasion  the  Athenians 
shall  receive  great  hurt  and  trouble.'  Which  words 
many  times  he  told  to  Alcibiades  himself.  He  had  a 
garden  adjoining  to  his  house  in  the  fields,  wherein 
was  a  fig-tree,  whereupon  many  desperate  men 
ordinarily  did  hang  themselves;  in  place  whereof 
he  purposed  to  set  up  a  house,  and  therefore  was 
forced  to  cut  it  down,  for  which  cause  he  went  to 
Athens,  and  in  the  market-place,  he  called  the 
people  about  him,  saying  that  he  had  news  to  tell 
them :  when  tlie  people  understood  that  he  was 
about  to  make  a  discourse  unto  them,  which  was 
wont  to  speak  to  no  man,  they  marvelled,  and  the 
citizens  on  every  part  of  the  city  ran  to  hear  him  ; 
to  whom  he  said,  that  he  purposed  to  cut  down  his 
fig-tree  to  build  a  house  upon  the  place  where  it 
stood.  '  Wherefore  (quoth  he)  if  there  be  any 
man  among  you  all  in  this  company  that  is  disposed 
to  hang  himself,  let  him  come  betimes  before  it  be 


ILLUSTRATION  OF  ACT  V. 


cut  down.'  Having  thus  bestowed  his  charity 
among  the  people,  he  returned  to  his  lodging,  where 
he  lived  a  certain  time  after  without  alteration  oi" 
nature;  and  because  that  nature  changed  not  in  his 
life-time,  he  would  not  sufier  that  death  should 
alter  or  var}^  the  same :  for  like  as  he  lived  a  beastly 
and  churlish  life,  even  so  he  required  to  liave  his 
funeral  done  after  that  manner.  By  ids  last  will 
he  ordained  himself  to  be  interred  upon  the  sea- 
shore, that  the  waves  and  surges  miglit  beat  and 
vex  his  dead  carcase.  Yea,  and  that  if  it  were 
possible,  his  desire  was  to  be  buried  in  the  depth 
of  the  sea;  causing  an  epitaph  to  he  made,  wherein 


were  descrilied  tlie  qualities  of  his  brutisii  life. 
Plutarch  also  reporteth  anotiier  to  be  made  by 
Callimachus,  much  like  to  tliat  whicli  Timon  made 
iiimself,  whose  own  soundetli  to  this  effect  in  Eng- 
lish verse : — 

"  '  My  wietclied  catifi;  days. 

Expired  now  and  past: 
My  carien  corpse  interred  liere, 

Is  fast  in  ground  : 
Fn  waUring  waves  of  swel- 

Ling  sea,  by  surges  cast. 
My  name  if  thou  desive. 

The  gods  thee  do  coniound.' "' 


[Temperance.     From  Raffaelle.] 


387 


***  The  argument  upon  which  our  Introductory  Notice  is  mainly  built,  —  that  the  Timon  of 
Athens  is  not  wholly  by  Shakspere, — has  led  to  such  an  analysis  of  the  play  as  we 
ordinarily  give  in  a  Supplementary  Notice ;  and  has  therefore  rendered  such  a  Notice 
here  unnecessary. 


388 


I'  Mmm 


f  .«ii,pili!it» 


[Country  near  Dover.] 


INTROUUCTOEY  NOTICE. 


State  of  the  Text,   and  Chronology,  of  King  Leak. 


The  first  edition  of  King  Lear  was  published  in  1608;  its  title  was  as  follows:  'Mr.  William 
Shake-speare  his  True  Chronicle  History  of  the  Life  and  Death  of  King  Lear,  and  his  three 
Daughters.  With  the  unfortunate  Life  of  Edgar,  Sonne  and  Heire  to  the  Earle  of  Glocester,  and 
his  sullen  and  assumed  Humour  of  Tom  of  Bedlam.  As  it  was  plaid  before  the  King's  Majesty  at 
White-Hall,  uppon  S.  Stephens  Night;  in  Christmas  Hollidaies.  By  his  Majesties  Servants  playing 
usually  at  the  Globe  on  the  Banck-side.  Printed  for  Nathaniel  Butter,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  his 
Shop  in  Paid's  Church-yard  at  the  Signe  of  the  Pied  Bull  neere  St.  Austins  Gate,  1608.'  Two 
other  editions  were  published  by  Butter  in  the  same  year ;  and  there  are  found  slight  variations  in 
each  (besides  the  omission  of  the  place  of  sale  in  the  title-page),  which  indicate  that  they  were  not 
printed  from  the  same  types  used  in  the  first  edition,  and  that  they  were  not  identical  reprints. 
They  have  each  been  collated  by  Steevens  and  Malone ;  and  the  differences  between  them  have 
not  been  found  of  any  importance  in  determining  the  text ;  we  therefore,  in  referring  to  the  original 
text,  speak  generally  of  the  quartos.  It  is  remarkable  that  a  play  of  which  three  editions  were 
demanded  in  one  year  should  not  have  been  reprinted  till  it  was  collected  in  the  folio  of  1623. 
Other  of  the  plays,  which  were  originally  published  in  a  separate  form  during  the  poet's  life-time, 
were  frequently  reprinted  before  the  folio  collection.  For  example  ;  of  Richard  II.  there  were  three 
editions  published  in  years  succeeding  that  in  which  it  was  first  printed;  of  Richard  III.,  four;  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  three;  of  Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  five ;  of  Henry  V.,  two  ;  of  The  Merry  "Wives  of 
Windsor,  one  ;  of  Hamlet,  three.  Whether  Lear  was  piratical,  or  whether  a  limited  publication 
was  allowed,  it  is  clear,  we  think,  that  by  some  interference  the  continued  publication  was  stopped. 
Davies,  in  his  '  Dramatic  Miscellanies,'  has  expressed  an  opinion,  founded  upon  the  circumstance 
that  Shakspere's  less  perfect  efforts  were  often  republished  and  this  not,  that  Lear  was  not  popular. 
This  argument  is  worthless  ;  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  other  of  Shakspere's  most  perfect 
efforts,   such  as   Macbeth,  wei-e  not  published  at  all   till   they  were  collected  in  the  folio.     Our 

391 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

general  opinions  upon  this  question  of  publication  are  expressed  in  the  Introductory  Notice  to 
Henry  V. ;  and  we  there  stated  as  follows  with  regard  to  this  tragedy  :   "  Lear  was  published  by 
Nathaniel  Butter  in  1608,  and  in  that  year  he  produced  three  editions.     It  was  in  all  likelihood 
piratical,  and  was  probably  suppressed,  for  no  future  edition  appears  till  that  of  the  folio,  while 
Hamlet  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  are  constantly  reprinted.     Batter  was  undoubtedly  not  a  publisher 
authorized  by   Shakspere  ;  for  he  printed,   in  1605,    'The  London  Prodigal,'  one  of  the  plays 
fraudulently  ascribed  to  our  poet-.     Butter  s  edition  of  Lear  is,  however,  a  correct  one.     He  must 
have  had  a  genuine  copy."     Yet  we  must  distinguish  between  a  genuine  copy,  and  a  copy  furnished 
by  the  author.      Nine  of   the   plays   published   in    quarto    differ   very    slightly    from    the    text 
of  the  folio ;  and,  what  is  of  great  importance,   the  metrical  aiTangement   in  the  text  of  these 
quarto  plays,  and  in  that  of  the  folio,  is  essentially  the  same.     We  have  already  stated  with  respect 
to  these  nine  plays  (Introductory  Notice  to  Henry  V.),  that  "Verbal  corrections,   and  in  one  or 
two  cases  additions  and  omissions,  are  found  in  the  folio ;  but  they  are  only  such  as  an  author, 
having  his  printed  works  before  him  during  at  least  sixteen  years,  would  naturally  make."     In  the 
folio  text  of  Lear,  as  compared  with  the  text  of  the  quarto,  there  are  verbal  corrections  and  addi- 
tions and  omissions ;  but  in  the  quarto  text  of  that  play  tlie  metrical  arrangement  is  one  mass  of 
confnsion.     Speech  after  speech,  and  scene  after  scene,  which  in  the  genuine  copy  of  the  folio  are 
luetrically  correct,  are,  in  the  quarto,   either  printed  as  prose,  or  the  lines  are  so  mixed  together 
without  any  apparent  knowledge  in  the  editor  of  the  metrical  laws  by  which  they  were  constructed, 
that  it  would  have  been  almost  impossible,  from  this  text  alone,   to  have  reduced  them  to  anything 
like  the  form  in  which  they  were  written  by  the  author.     This  circumstance  appears  to  us  conclusive 
tliat  tliese  quarto  copies  could  not  have  been  printed  from  the  author's  manuscript ;  and  yet  they 
might  have  been  printed  from  a  genuine  playhouse  copy.     It  is  to  be  remarked  that,  in  all  the  quarto 
editions,  which  it  would  appear  from  various  collateral   circimnstances  were  not  printed  under  the 
superintendence  of  the  author  (as  we  have  shown  in  the  notice  already  referred  to),  the  meti'ical 
arrangement  is,  in  the  same  way,  more  or  less  defective;  and  we  may  judge  from  this,  that  in  the  stage 
copies  the  pauses  of  the  blank  verse  were  eitlier  disregarded  as  a  guide  for  the  actors,  or  tliat  tlie 
printed  copies  were  produced  from  a  report  made  in  some  way  or  other  by  persons  present  at  the 
representation,  or  by  the  repetition  of  the  players  themselves,  who  would  not  mark  those  pauses.     It 
will  be  observed  that  there  is  a  remarkable  particularity  in  the  title  of  the  quartos  of  Lear  :   "  As  it 
was  plaid  before  the  King's  Majesty  at  White-Hall,  uppon  S.  Stephens  Night;  in  Christmas  HoUi- 
daies."     In  the  entry  at  Stationers'  Hall,  Nov.  26,  1607,  the  same  particularity  occurs  :   "As  yt  was 
played  before  the  King's  Majestic  at  Whitehall,   upon  St.    Stephen's  night  at  Christmas    last." 
From  the  somewhat  ostentatious  precision  with  which  Butter  mentions  this  circumstance,  may  it 
not  be  conjectured  that  he  obtained  a  copy,  used  upon  that  occasion,  from  some  one  of  the  players 
— perfect  to  a  certain  extent,  but  still  not  the  author's  copy? 

These  considerations  may  at  first  sight  appear  unimportant,  but  they  are  of  some  consequence 
in  determining  the  value  of  a  text.  The  modern  text  of  King  Lear  is  essentially  that  of  the  folio. 
Tliere  are  passages,  indeed,  which  the  editors  have  restored  from  the  quartos ;  and  we  admit  the 
importance  of  preserving  those  passages,  upon  the  principle  that  not  a  line  which  appears  to  have 
been  written  by  Shakspere  ought  to  be  lost ;  but,  in  other  respects,  the  text  of  the  folio  is  infinitely 
superior  to  that  of  the  quartos,  and  the  editors  for  the  most  part  have  abided  by  it.  But  they  have 
sometimes  made  up  a  text  out  of  both  copies,  and  sometimes,  arbitrainly  as  we  think,  preferred  the 
text  of  the  quartos  to  that  of  the  folio.  Our  copy  is  literally  that  of  the  folio,  except  that  where  a 
passage  occurs  in  the  quartos  which  is  not  in  the  folio,  we  introduce  such  a  passage,  printing  it, 
however,  in  bi'ackets.  It  would  have  been  wearisome,  and,  in  a  certain  degree,  useless,  to  have 
noticed  all  the  differences  between  the  folio  and  the  quartos ;  but  we  notice  the  very  few  instances 
in  which  we  adopt  the  text  of  the  quartos  and  not  that  of  the  folio ;  and  the  instances  also  in 
which,  adopting  the  text  of  the  folio,  we  differ  fi'om  the  modern  editors  who  have  preferred  that  of 
the  quarto. 

The  text  of  the  folio,  in  one  material  respect,  differs  considerably  from  that  of  the  quartos. 
Large  passages  which  are  found  in  the  quartos  are  omitted  in  the  folio :  there  are,  indeed,  some 
lines  found  in  the  folio  which  are  not  in  the  quartos,  amounting  to  about  fifty.  These  are  scat- 
tered passages,  not  very  remarkable  when  detached,  but  for  the  most  part  essential  to  the  pro- 
gress of  the  action  or  to  the  development  of  character.  On  the  other  hand,  the  lines  found  in  the 
o02 


KINO  LKAR. 

quartos  wliicli  are  not  in  the  folio,  amount  to  as  many  as  two  hundred  and  twenty-five  ;  and  tliey 
comprise  one  entire  scene,  and  one  or  two  of  the  most  striking  connected  passages  in  the  drama. 
It  would  be  easy  to  account  for  these  omissions,  by  the  assumption  that  in  the  folio  edition  the 
original  play  was  cut  down  by  the  editors  ;  for  Lear,  without  the  omissions,  is  perhaps  the  longest 
of  Shakspere's  plays,  with  the  exception  of  Hamlet.  But  this  theory  would  require  us  to  assume, 
also,  that  the  additions  to  the  folio  were  made  by  the  editors.  These  comprise  several  such  minute 
touches  as  none  but  the  hand  of  the  master  could  have  superadded.  One  example  will  suffice. 
In  the  storm  scene,  when  Lear  and  the  Fool  find  the  hovel,  Lear  says  to  him — 

"  In,  buy;  yothst. — You  liousel  ess  poverty, — 

N;iy,  get  thee  in.     I  '11  pray,  and  tlien  I  'U  sleep." 

Upon  this  passage  Johnson  has  a  note  : — "  These  two  lines  were  added  in  the  author's  revision, 
and  are  only  in  tlie  folio.  They  are  very  judiciously  intended  to  represent  that  humility,  or 
tenderness,  or  neglect  of  forms,  which  affliction  forces  on  the  mind."  But  Johnson  did  not  think 
so  favourably  of  the  omissions  in  the  folio  ;  although  he  has  expressed  an  opinion  that  they  were 
the  omissions  of  the  author.  Of  some  lines  in  Act  in..  Scene  vi.,  he  says,  "The  omission  of  them 
in  the  folio  is  certainly  faulty :  yet  I  believe  the  folio  is  printed  from  Shakspere's  last  revision, 
carelessly  and  hastily  performed,  with  more  thought  of  shortening  the  scenes  than  of  continuing 
the  action."  We  cannot  willingly  yield  to  the  belief  that  Shakspere  "  carelessly  and  hastily  " 
performed  any  part  of  his  work ;  and,  especially,  that  he  yielded  to  this  carelessness  and  haste  in 
the  revision  of  a  tragedy  which,  taken  altogether,  "  may  be  judged  to  be  the  most  perfect  specimen 
of  the  dramatic  art  existing  in  the  world."*  Let  us  examine  the  matter,  therefore,  a  little  more 
in  detail. 

In  the  first  and  second  acts  the  omissions  are  very  slight.  In  the  opening  of  the  third  act  we 
lose  a  spirited  description  of  Lear  in  the  storm — "  tears  his  white  hair,"  &c.  But  mark, — it  is 
description  ;  and  the  judgment  of  Shakspere  in  omitting  it  is  unquestionable,  for  he  subsequently 
shows  Lear  in  actioii  under  precisely  the  same  circumstances.  In  the  sixth  scene  of  the  same  act 
is  omitted  the  imaginary  trial  of  Regan  and  Goneril,  "I  will  arraign  them  straight."  Was  this  a 
passage  that  an  author  woidd  have  thrust  out  carelessly  and  hastily  ?  It  is  impossible,  as  it  woidd 
be  presumptuous  were  it  possible,  unhesitatingly  to  assign  a  motive  for  this  omission.  The 
physical  exertion  that  would  be  necessary  for  any  actor  (even  for  Burbage,  who  we  know  played 
Lear)  f  to  carry  through  the  whole  of  the  third  act  might  have  been  so  extreme  as  to  render  it 
expedient  to  make  this  abridgment ;  or,  what  is  more  probable,  as  Kent  previous  to  this  passage 
had  said,  "All  the  power  of  his  wits  have  given  way  to  his  impatience,"  the  imaginary  arraign- 
ment might  have  been  rejected  by  the  poet,  as  exhibiting  too  much  method  in  the  madness.  The 
rhyming  soliloquy  of  Edgar,  with  which  this  scene  closes,  might  have  been  spared  by  the  poet 
without  much  compunction.  The  second  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  in  which  Albany  so  bitterly 
reproaches  Goneril,  is  greatly  abridged.  In  its  amplified  state  it  does  not  advance  the  progress  of 
the  action,  nor  contribute  to  the  development  of  the  characters.  The  whole  of  the  third  scene  of 
that  act  is  also  omitted.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautifully  written  of  the  play  ;  and  we  should  indeed 
regret  had  it  not  been  preserved  to  us  in  the  quartos.  But  let  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  scene  is  purely  descriptive ;  and,  exquisite  as  the  description  is,  particularly  in  those 
parts  which  make  us  better  understand  the  surpassing  loveliness  of  Cordelia's  character,  we  cannot 
avoid  believing  that  the  poet  sternly  resolved  to  let  the  effect  of  this  wonderful  drama  entirely 
depend  upon  its  action.  Tieck  puts  the  rejection  of  this  scene  upon  another  ground — that  it 
introduced  some  complexity  into  the  tragedy,  and  described  events,  such  as  the  return  of  the 
French  king,  and  the  sojourn  of  Lear  in  Dover  without  seeing  his  daughter,  which  have  no 
influence  upon  the  futm-e  conduct  of  the  poem.  The  subsequent  omissions,  to  the  end  of  the 
drama,  are  few  and  unimportant. 

The  period  of  the  first  production  of  Lear  may  be  fixed  with  tolerable  certainty.  We  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  the  precise  year  of  its  first  performance  can  be  ascertained,  any  more  than  the 
precise  day.     To  Malone   "  it  seems  extremely  probable  that  its  first  appearance  was  in  March 

•  We  shall  have  occasiun  subsequently  to  advert  to  this  opinion  of  Lear  from  a  great  poet — Shelley. 
t  In  an  elegy  on  IJurbage,  printed  by  Mr.  Collier, are  these  lines: — 

"  And  his  whole  action  he  could  change  with  ease, 
From  ancient  Lear  to  youthful  Pericles." 

393 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 

or  April,  1605."  To  Dr.  Drake  "  it  appears  more  probable  that  its  production  is  to  be  attributed 
to  the  close  of  tlie  year  1604."  Here  Malone  and  Drake  are  at  issue  upon  a  question  of  three 
months;  when  the  facts  which  we  really  know  about  the  matter  give  us  a  range  of  three  years. 
The  first  certain  fact,  which  we  collect  from  the  registers  of  the  Stationers'  Company,  is  that  Lear 
was  played  before  King  James,  at  Whitehall,  upon  St.  Stephen's  night,  in  the  year  1606 — that  is, 
on  the  26th  of  December.  Here  is  the  limit  in  one  direction.  In  the  other  direction  we  have  the 
publication,  in  1603,  of  Harsnet's  '  Declaration  of  egregious  Popish  Impostures,'  from  which  book 
Shakspere  undoubtedly  derived  some  materials  which  he  employed  in  the  assumed  madness  of 
Edgar.  It  is  pretty  clear,  also,  from  two  passages  in  the  text  of  the  quarto  editions,  that  the 
author,  or  the  actors  of  the  tragedy,  "  as  it  was  played  before  the  king's  majesty,"  were  careful  to 
make  two  minute  changes  which  would  be  agreeable  to  James.  We  have  seen  (Illustrations 
of  Act  III.)  that  after  the  accession  of  James,  when  he  was  proclaimed  king  of  Great  Britain,  it 
was  usual  to  merge  the  name  of  England  in  that  of  Britain.  Bacon  thus  explains  the  completion 
of  the  old  prophecy,  "  When  hempe  is  sponne,  England's  donne."  The  ancient  metrical  saying, 
"  Fy,  fo,  fum,  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  English  man,"  becomes  in  Lear,  "  I  smell  the  blood  of  a 
British  man  ;  "  and  in  the  quarto  editions  (Act  iv.  Scene  vi.)  we  have — 

"  And  give  the  letters,  which  thou  flnd'st  about  me. 
To  Edmund  earl  of  Gloster ;  seek  him  out 
Upon  the  British  party." 

But  the  commentators  have  not  noticed  that  in  the  folio  edition  of  1623  the  latter  passage  is  given, 
"  Upon  the  English  party."  This  slight  difference  proves  one  of  two  things — either  that  upon  the 
publication  of  the  folio  the  distinction  between  British  and  English,  which  was  meant  as  a  mark 
of  compliment  to  James,  had  ceased  to  be  regarded ;  or  that  the  passage,  having  been  written 
before  his  accession,  had  not  been  changed  in  the  copy  from  which  the  folio  was  printed,  as  it  was 
changed  in  the  copy  of  the  play  acted  before  the  king  in  1606.  The  allusions  derived  from 
Harsnet's  book  fix  the  date  of  the  tragedy  as  near  as  we  can  desire  it  to  be  fixed.  All  that  we  can 
hope  for  in  these  matters  is  an  approximation  to  a  date.  It  is  sufficient  for  us  to  be  confirmed, 
through  such  a  fact,  in  the  belief,  derived  from  internal  evidence,  that  Lear  was  produced  at  that 
period  when  the  genius  of  Shakspere  was  "  at  its  very  point  of  culmination." 


Supposed  Source  of  the  Plot. 


The  story  of  Lear  belongs  to  the  popular  literature  of  Europe.  It  is  a  pretty  episode  in  the 
fabidous  chronicles  of  Britain  ;  and  whether  invented  by  the  monkish  historians,  or  transplanted 
into  our  annals  from  some  foreign  source,  is  not  very  material.  In  the  '  Gesta  Romanorum,'  the 
same  story  is  told  of  Theodosius,  "  a  wise  emperor  in  the  city  of  Rome."  Douce  has  pubhshed 
this  story  from  the  manuscript  in  the  Harleian  Collection.  It  may  be  sufficient  to  give  the 
beginning  of  this  curious  narrative,  to  show  how  clearly  all  the  histories  have  been  derived  from  a 
common  sovu'ce  : — 

"  Theodosius  regned,  a  wys  emperour  in  the  cite  of  Rome,  and  myghti  he  was  of  power;  the 
whiche  emperour  had  thre  doughters.  So  hit  liked  to  this  emperour  to  knowe  which  of  his  doughters 
lovid  him  best.  And  tho  he  seid  to  the  eldest  doughter,  how  moche  lovist  thou  me  ?  fForsoth,  quod 
she,  more  than  I  do  myself,  therefore,  quod  he,  thou  shalt  be  hily  avaunsed,  and  maried  her  to  a 
riche  and  myghti  kyng.  Tho  he  cam  to  the  secund,  and  seid  to  her,  doughter,  how  moche  lovist  thou 
me?  As  moche  forsoth,  she  seid,  as  I  do  myself.  So  the  emperour  maried  her  to  a  due.  And 
tho  he  seid  to  the  thrid  doughter,  how  moche  lovist  thou  me  1  ffbrsoth,  quod  she,  as  moche  as  ye 
beth  worthi,  and  no  more.  Tho  seid  the  emperour,  doughter,  sith  thou  lovist  me  no  more,  thou 
shalt  not  be  maried  so  richely  as  tlii  susters  beth.     And  tho  he  maried  her  to  an  erle." 

The  French  have  a  famous  romance  entitled  '  La  tres  elegante  delicieuse  melliflue  et  tres  plaisante 
hystoire  du  tres  victorieux  &  excellentissime  Roy  Perceforest  Roy  de  la  grant  Bretaigne,'  of  the 
veritable  contents  of  which  an  account  will  be  found  in  the  '  Censura  Literaria,'  vol.  viii.  These 
chronicles,  according  to  Sir  Egerton  Brydges,  "  begin  with  the  foundation  of  Troy,  which  they 
affirm  to  have  been  in  the  third  age  of  the  world,  and  that  it  was  taken  while  Abdon  was  judge  over 

394 


KING  LEAR. 

Israel.  The  travels  of  Brutus,  and  his  wars  in  Great  Britain  and  Aquitaine,  follow,  whicli  took 
place  while  Saul  reigned  in  Judea,  and  Aristeus  in  Lacedemon.  His  grandson,  Rududribas,  father 
of  the  celebrated  Bladud,  founded  the  ancient  city  of  Canterbury,  which  occurred  during  the  time 
in  which  Haggai,  Amos,  and  Joel,  prophesied.  These  curious  circumstances  are  succeeded  by  the 
story  of  Lear  (son  to  Bladud)  and  his  three  daughters,  which  was  in  the  time  of  Isaiah  and  Hosea, 
at  which  period  also  the  city  of  Rome  was  founded."  The  exact  chronology  of  the  romancers 
and  chroniclers  is  well  worthy  attention.  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  is  quite  as  precise  as  Pierceforest : 
"  At  this  time  flourished  the  prophets  Isaiah  and  Hosea,  and  Rome  was  built  upon  the  eleventh  of 
the  Calends  of  May,  by  the  two  brothers  Romulus  and  Remus."  With  such  unquestionable 
authority  for  the  date  of  the  story  of  Lear,  well  may  Malone  have  been  shocked  when  Edgar  says, 
"  Nero  was  an  angler  in  the  lake  of  darkness;"  and  we  ought  to  be  grave  when  Malone  informs 
us,  with  the  most  perfect  gravity,  "  Nero  is  introduced  in  the  present  play  above  eight  hundred 
years  before  he  was  born."  Shakspere  found  the  story  in  his  favourite  Holinshed;  and  he  probably 
did  not  trouble  himself  to  refer  to  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  from  whom  Holinshed  abridged  it.  We 
subjoin  the  legend  as  told  by  Holinshed: — 

"Leir,  the  son  of  Baldud,  was  admitted  ruler  over  the  Britains  in  the  year  of  the  world  3105. 
At  what  time  Joas  reigned  as  yet  in  Juda.  This  Leir  was  a  prince  of  noble  demeanour,  governing 
his  land  and  subjects  in  great  wealth.  He  made  the  town  of  Cairleir,  now  called  Leicester,  which 
standeth  upon  the  river  of  Dore.  It  is  writ  that  he  had  by  his  wife  three  daughters,  without  other 
issue,  whose  names  were,  Gonorilla,  Regan,  and  Cordilla,  which  daughters  he  greatly  loved,  but 
especially  the  youngest,  Cordilla,  far  above  the  two  elder. 

"When  this  Leir  was  come  to  great  years,  and  began  to  wear  unwieldy  through  age,  he  thought 
to  understand  the  affections  of  his  daughters  towards  him,  and  prefer  her  whom  he  best  loved  to 
the  succession  of  the  kingdom  ;  therefore,  he  first  asked  Gonorilla,  the  eldest,  how  well  she  loved 
him  :  the  which,  calling  her  gods  to  record,  protested  that  she  loved  him  more  than  her  own  life, 
which  by  right  and  reason  should  be  most  dear  unto  her ;  with  which  answer  the  father,  being  well 
pleased,  timied  to  the  second,  and  demanded  of  her  how  well  she  loved  him  ?  which  answered 
(confirming  her  sayings  with  great  oaths)  that  she  loved  him  more  than  tongue  can  express,  and 
far  above  all  other  creatures  in  the  world. 

"  Then  called  he  his  youngest  daughter,  Cordilla,  before  him,  and  asked  of  her  what  account  she 
made  of  him :  unto  whom  she  made  this  answer  as  followeth  : — Knowing  the  great  love  and  fatherly 
z.eal  you  have  always  borne  towards  me  (for  the  which,  that  I  may  not  answer  you  othei-wise  than 
I  think,  and  as  my  conscience  leadeth  me),  I  protest  to  you  that  I  have  always  loved  you,  and 
shall  continually  while  I  live,  love  you  as  my  natural  father  ;  and  if  you  would  more  understand 
of  the  love  that  I  bear  you,  ascertain  yourself,  that  so  much  as  you  have,  so  much  you  are  worth, 
and  so  much  I  love  you,  and  no  more. 

"  The  father,  being  nothing  content  with  this  answer,  married  the  two  eldest  daughters,  the  one 
unto  the  duke  of  Cornwall,  named  Henninus,  and  the  other  unto  the  duke  of  Albania,  called  Mag- 
lanus ;  and  betwixt  them,  after  his  death,  he  willed  and  ordained  his  land  shoidd  be  divided,  and 
the  one-half  thereof  should  be  immediately  assigned  unto  them  in  hand  ;  but  for  the  third  daughter, 
Cordilla,  he  reserved  nothing. 

"  Yet  it  fortuned  that  one  of  the  princes  of  Gallia  (which  now  is  called  France),  whose  name 
was  Aganippus,  hearing  of  the  beauty,  womanhood,  and  good  conditions  of  the  said  Cordilla, 
desired  to  have  her  in  marriage,  and  sent  over  to  her  father,  requiring  that  he  might  have  her  to 
wife  ;  to  whom  answer  was  made,  that  he  might  have  his  daughter,  but  for  any  dowry  he  could 
have  none,  for  all  was  promised  and  assured  to  her  other  sisters  already. 

"Aganippus,  notwithstanding  this  answer  of  denial  to  receive  anything  by  way  of  dower  with 
Cordilla,  took  her  to  wife,  only  moved  thereto  (I  say)  for  respect  of  her  person  and  amiable  virtues. 
This  Aganippus  was  one  of  the  twelve  kings  that  ruled  Gallia  in  those  days,  as  in  the  British 
history  it  is  recorded.  But  to  proceed;  after  that  Leir  was  fallen  into  age,  the  two  dukes  that  had 
married  his  two  eldest  daughters,  thinking  it  long  ere  the  government  of  the  land  did  come  to  their 
hands,  arose  against  him  in  armour,  and  reft  from  him  the  governance  of  the  land,  upon  conditions 
to  be  continued  for  term  of  life :  by  the  which  he  was  put  to  his  portion ;  that  is,  to  live  after  a 
rate  assigned  to  him  for  the  maintenance  of  his  estate,  which  in  process  of  time  was  diminished,  as 
well  by  Maglianus  as  by  Henninus. 

395 


INTUODUCTORY  NO'l'ICR. 

"  But  the  greatest  grief  that  Leir  took  was  to  see  the  unkindiiess  of  his  (laixo;hters,  who  seemed 
to  think  tliat  all  was  too  much  which  their  father  had,  the  same  being  never  so  little,  in  so  much 
that,  going  from  the  one  to  the  other,  he  was  brought  to  that  misery  that  they  would  allow  him 
only  one  servant  to  wait  upon  him.  In  the  end,  sucli  was  the  uiikindness,  or,  as  I  may  say,  the 
imnaturalness,  which  he  found  in  his  two  daughters,  notwithstanding  their  fair  and  pleasant  words 
uttered  in  time  past,  that,  being  constrained  of  necessity,  he  fled  the  land,  and  sailed  into  Gallia, 
there  to  seek  some  comfort  of  his  youngest  daughter,  Cordilla,  whom  before  he  hated. 

"  The  lady  Cordilla,  hearing  he  was  arrived  in  poor  estate,  she  first  sent  to  him  privately  a 
sum  of  money  to  apparel  himself  withall,  and  to  retain  a  certain  number  of  servants,  that  might 
attend  upon  him  in  honoiirable  wise,  as  apperteyned  to  the  estate  which  he  had  borne.  And  then, 
so  accompanyed,  she  appointed  him  to  come  to  the  court,  which  he  did,  and  was  so  joyfully,  ho- 
norably, and  lovingly  received,  both  by  his  son-in-law  Aganippus,  and  also  by  his  daughter  Cor- 
dilla, that  his  heart  was  greatly  comforted :  for  he  was  no  less  honoured  than  if  he  had  been 
king  of  the  whole  country  himself.  Also,  after  that  he  had  informed  his  son-in-law  and  his 
daughter  in  what  sort  he  had  been  used  by  his  other  daughters,  Aganippus  caused  a  mighty  army 
to  be  put  in  readiness,  and  likewise  a  great  navy  of  ships  to  be  rigged  to  pass  over  into  Britain, 
with  Leir  his  fathei--in-law,  to  see  him  again  restored  to  liis  kingdom. 

"  It  was  accorded  that  Cordilla  should  also  go  with  him  to  take  possession  of  the  land,  the 
which  he  promised  to  leave  unto  her,  as  his  rightful  inheritor  after  his  decease,  notwithstanding 
any  former  grants  made  unto  her  sisters,  or  unto  their  husbands,  in  any  manner  of  wise ;  hereupon, 
when  this  army  and  navy  of  ships  were  ready,  Leir  and  his  daughter  Cordilla,  with  her  husband, 
took  the  sea,  and  arriving  in  Britain,  fought  with  their  enemies,  and  discomfited  them  in  battle, 
in  the  which  Maglanus  and  Henninus  were  slain,  and  then  was  Leir  restored  to  his  kingdom,  which 
he  ruled  after  this  by  the  space  of  two  years,  and  then  died,  forty  3'ears  after  he  first  began  to 
reign.  His  body  was  buried  at  Leicester,  in  a  vault  vmder  the  channel  of  the  river  Dore,  beneatli 
the  town." 

The  subsequent  fate  of  Cordelia  is  also  narrated  by  Holinshed.  She  became  queen  after  her 
father's  death  ;  but  her  nephews  "  levied  war  against  her,  and  destroyed  a  great  part  of  the  land, 
and  finally  took  her  prisoner,  and  laid  her  fast  in  ward,  wherewith  she  took  such  grief,  being  a 
woman  of  a  manly  courage,  and  despairing  to  recover  liberty,  there  she  slew  herself."  Spenser,  in 
the  second  book  of  '  The  Fairy  Queen,'  canto  10,  has  told  the  story  of  Lear  and  his  daughters,  in 
six  stanzas,  in  which  he  has  been  content  to  put  in  verse,  with  very  slight  change  or  embellish- 
ment, the  naiTative  of  the  chroniclers.     The  concluding  stanza  will  be  a  sufiicient  specimen  : — 

"  So  to  his  crown  she  liim  vestov'd  njain, 
In  wliich  lie  dy'd,  made  ripe  lor  dentli  l)y  eld, 
And  after  wiUVl  it  should  to  her  remain  ; 
Who  peaceably  (he  same  Ion;;  time  diil  weld, 
And  all  men's  hearts  in  due  ob>'dieiice  held  ; 
Till  that  her  sister's  children,  woxon  strong. 
Through  proud  ambition  against  her  rebell  d. 
And  overcomen,  kept  in  prison  long. 
Till  weary  of  that  wretched  lil'e,  herself  she  hong." 

The  story  of  Lear  had  unquestionably  been  dramatised  before  Shakspcre  produced  his  tragedy. 
'  The  true  Chronicle  History  of  King  Leir  and  his  three  Daughters,  Gonorill,  Ragan,  and  Cordelia, 
as  it  hath  been  divers  and  sundry  times  latelj'  acted,'  was  printed,  probably  for  the  first  time,  in 
1605  ;  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  belongs  to  a  period  some  ten,  fifteen,  or  perhaps  twenty 
years  earlier.  In  1594  an  entry  was  made  at  Stationers'  Hall,  of  '  The  moste  famous  Chronicle 
Hystorie  of  Leire  King  of  England,  and  his  Three  Daiighters.'  Theobald  calls  this  old  play  "  an 
execrable  performance;"  Percy,  "  a  very  poor  and  dull  perfoi-mance ;"  and  Capell,  "  a  silly  old 
play."  It  is  certainly  all  these,  when  compared  with  the  wonderful  production  of  Shakspere;  but 
we  are  by  no  means  certain  that  it  is  not  as  good  as  half  the  pieces  which  occupied  the  stage,  and 
not  unsuccessfully,  at  the  very  time  that  Shakspere  had  produced  some  of  his  most  glorious  works. 
Theobald  and  Capell  have  selected  some  of  tlie  worst  passages  from  this  curious  drama.  We  sub- 
join a  scene  which  will  enable  our  readers  to  compare  it  with  the  first  scene  of  Shakspere's  Lear: — 


396 


KING  LEAR. 


"  Leir.  Deaie  Goiiorill,  kind  Ragan,  sweet  Cordelia, 
Ye  florishing  branches  of  a  kingly  stocke. 
Sprung  from  a  tree  that  once  did  flourish  greene, 
Whose  blossomes  now  are  nipt  with  winter's  liost, 
And  pale  grym  death  doth  wayt  upon  my  steps. 
And  summons  me  unto  his  next  assizes. 
Therefore,  deare  daughters,  as  ye  tender  the  safety 
Of  him  that  was  the  cause  of  your  first  being, 
Resolve  a  doubt  which  much  molests  my  mind, 
Wliich  of  you  three  to  me  would  prove  most  kind : 
Which  loves  me  most,  and  which  at  my  request 
Will  soonest  yeeld  unto  their  fiither's  hest. 

"  Oonurill.  I  hope,  my  gracious  ftither  makes  nodoubi 
Of  any  of  his  daughters  love  to  him  : 
Yet  for  my  part,  to  shew  my  zeal  to  you. 
Which  cannot  be  in  windy  words  rehearst, 
1  prize  my  love  to  you  at  such  a  rate, 
I  thinke  my  life  inferiour  to  my  love. 
Should  you  injoine  me  for  to  tie  a  milstone 
About  my  neck,  and  leape  into  the  sea, 
At  your  commaund  I  willingly  would  doe  it : 
Yea,  for  to  doe  you  good,  I  would  ascend 
The  highest  turret  in  all  Brittany, 
And  from  the  top  leape  headlong  to  the  ground  : 
Nay,  more,  should  you  appoint  me  for  to  marry 
The  meanest  vassaile  in  the  spacious  world. 
Without  reply  I  would  accomplish  it : 
In  briefe,  commauud  whatever  you  desire, 
And  if  I  faile,  no  favour  I  require. 

"  Leir.  O,  how  thy  words  revive  my  dyiug  soule  ! 

"  Cordelia.  O,  how  I  doe  abhorre  this  flattery  I 

"  Leir.  But  what  sayth  Ragan  to  her  father's  will  ? 

"Ragan.  O,  that  my  simple  utterance  could  suffice 
To  tell  the  true  intention  of  my  heart, 
Wliich  burnes  in  zeale  of  duty  to  your  grace, 
And  never  can  be  quench'd,  but  by  desire 
To  shew  the  same  in  outward  forwardnesse. 
Oh,  that  there  were  some  other  maid  that  durst 
But  make  a  challenge  of  her  love  with  me  ; 
Ide  make  her  scone  confesse  she  never  loved 
Her  father  lialfe  so  well  as  I  doe  you. 
I  then  my  deeds  should  prove  in  plainer  case, 
How  much  my  zeale  aboundeth  to  your  grace  : 
But  for  them  all,  let  this  one  meane  suffice 
To  ratify  my  love  before  your  eyes : 
I  have  right  noble  suters  to  my  love. 
No  worse  then  kings,  and  happely  I  love  one  : 
Yes,  would  you  have  me  make  my  choice  anew, 
Ide  bridle  fancy,  and  be  rulde  by  you. 

"  Leir.  Did  never  Philomel  sing  so  sweet  a  note. 

"Cordelia.  Did  never  flatterer  tell  so  false  a  tale. 

"Leir.   Speak  now,  Cordelia,  make  my  joys  at  full. 
And  drop  downe  nectar  from  thy  honey  lips. 

"  Cordelia.  I  cannot  paint  my  duty  forth  in  words. 


I  hope  my  dee<ls  shall  make  report  for  me : 

But  looke  what  love  the  child  doth  owe  the  father. 

The  same  to  you  I  beare,  my  gracious  lord. 

"  Gunoritl.  Here  is  an  answere  auswerlesse  indeed  : 
Were  you  my  daughter,  I  should  scarcely  brooke  it. 

"  Ragan.  Dost  thou  not  blush,  proud  peacock  as  thou 
art. 
To  make  our  father  such  a  slight  reply  ? 

"Leir.  Why  how  now,  minion,  are  you  growne  so  proud  ? 
Doth  our  deare  love  make  you  thus  peremptory  ? 
WHiat,  is  your  love  become  so  small  to  us. 
As  that  you  scorne  to  tell  us  what  it  is? 
Do  you  love  us,  as  every  child  doth  love 
Their  father  ?     True  indeed,  as  some. 
Who  by  disobedience  short  their  father's  dayes. 
And  so  would  you  ;  some  are  so  father-sick. 
That  they  make  meanes  to  rid  them  from  the  world ; 
And  so  would  you  :  some  are  indifferent. 
Whether  their  aged  pareuts  live  or  die; 
And  so  are  you.     But,  didst  thou  know,  proud  girle. 
What  care  I  had  to  foster  thee  to  this. 
Ah,  then  thou  wouldst  say  as  thy  sisters  do  : 
Our  life  is  lesse,  then  love  we  owe  to  you. 

"  Cordelia.  Deare  father,  do  not  so  mistake  my  words, 
Nor  my  plaine  meaning  be  misconstrued ; 
My  toung  was  never  usde  to  flattery. 

"  Qonorill.  You  were  not  best  say  I  flatter  :  if  you  do. 
My  deeds  shall  shew,  I  flatter  not  with  you. 
I  love  my  father  better  then  thou  canst. 

"  Cordelia.  The  praise  were  great,  spoke  from  another's 
mouth : 
But  it  should  seeme  your  neighbours  dwell  far  off. 

"  Ragan.  Nay,  here  is  one,  that w ill  confirme  as  much 
As  she  hath  said,  both  for  myselfe  and  her. 
I  say,  thou  dost  not  wish  my  father's  good. 

"Cordelia.  Deare  father 

"  Leir.  Peace,  bastard  impe,  no  issue  of  king  Leir, 
I  will  not  heare  thee  speake  one  tittle  more. 
Call  not  me  father,  if  thou  love  thy  life. 
Nor  these  thy  sisters  once  presume  to  name  : 
Looke  for  no  helpe  henceforth  from  me  or  mine ; 
Shift  as  thou  wilt,  and  trust  unto  thyselfe: 
My  kingdome  will  I  equally  devide 
'Twixt  ihy  two  sisters  to  their  royal  dowre. 
And  will  bestow  them  worthy  their  deserts: 
This  done,  because  thou  shalt  not  have  the  hope 
To  have  a  child's  part  in  the  time  to  come, 
I  presently  will  dispossesse  myselfe. 
And  set  up  these  upon  my  princely  throne. 

"  Oonmill.  I  ever  thought  that  pride  would  have  a  fall. 

"  Ragan.  Plaine    dealing  sister:    your  beauty   is  so 
sheene. 
You  need  no  dowry,  to  make  you  be  a  queene. 

\_Exeunt  Leir,  Gonoeill,  Raoan." 


Mr.  Skottowe  has,  with  great  diligence  and  minuteness,  attempted  to  trace  Shakspere  in  what 
he  is  supposed  to  have  horrowed  from  the  old  play,  and  also  in  the  points  of  difference.  Our  readers 
will  easily  imagine,  from  the  extract  with  which  we  have  furnished  them,  that  Shakspere  had,  at 
all  events,  to  create  the  poetical  diction  of  Lear,  without  any  obligation  to  his  lumbering  prede- 
cessor. In  the  conduct  of  the  plot  he  is  equally  original.  It  may  be  sufficient  for  us  to  state  that 
of  the  madness  of  Lear  we  have  no  trace  in  the  old  play ;  and  that,  like  the  chronicle,  it  ends  with 
the  triumphant  restoration  of  Lear  to  his  kingdom.  Knowing  this,  we  think  that  our  readers  will 
agree  with  us  that  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  trace  such  resemblances  as  Mr.  Skottowe  has 
described  in  the  foUoAving  passage  :  "  How  noble  is  the  burst  of  passion,  agony,  and  remorse,  that 
succeed  the  disappointment  of  Shakspeare's  king  !  — 

'  Life  and  death  !     I  am  asham'd 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood  thus : 
That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me  perforce. 
Should  make  thee  worth  tliem.'        *        *        «        * 


Traokdies. — Vol .  I. 


397 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


And— 


■  •  *  •  *  Old  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again  I  '11  pluck  you  out; 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose. 
To  temper  clay." 

'  You  think,  I  '11  weep  ; 
No,  I  '11  not  weep  : 

I  have  full  cause  for  weeping ;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws. 
Or  ere  I  '11  weep.' 

"  To  these  passages  the  author  of  the  old  play  derives  some  slight  claim ;  for  his  Leir  weeps  after 
the  vituperations  of  Gonorill,  and  Ragan  observes — 

■  He  cannot  speak  fur  weeping.'  " 

There  is  a  ballad,  printed  in  '  Percy's  Reliques,'  on  the  story  of  Lear.  It  is  without  a  date,  and 
Percy  says,  "  Here  is  found  the  hint  of  Lear's  madness,  which  the  old  chronicles  do  not  mention, 
as  also  the  extravagant  cruelty  exercised  on  him  by  his  daughters.  In  the  death  of  Lear  they 
likewise  very  exactly  coincide.  The  misfortune  is,  that  there  is  nothing  to  assist  us  in  ascertaining 
the  date  of  the  ballad  but  what  little  evidence  arises  from  within."  We  print  the  passages  to 
whichPercy  alludes  : — 


'  Her  father,  old  king  Leir,  this  while 

With  his  two  daughters  staid ; 
Forgetful  of  their  promis'd  loves. 

Full  soon  the  same  decay'd  ; 
And  living  in  queen  Ragan's  court. 

The  eldest  of  the  twain. 
She  took  from  him  his  chiefest  means, 

And  most  of  all  his  train. 

For  whereas  twenty  men  were  wont 

To  wait  with  bended  kuee : 
She  gave  allowance  but  to  ten, 

And  after  scarce  to  three : 
Nay,  one  she  tliought  too  much  for  him  : 

So  took  she  all  away, 
In  hope  that  in  her  court,  good  king. 

He  would  no  longer  stay. 

Am  1  rewarded  thus,  quoth  he. 

In  giving  all  1  have 
Unto  my  children,  and  to  beg 

For  what  I  lately  gave  ? 
I  '11  go  unto  my  Gonorell  ; 

My  second  child,  I  know. 
Will  be  more  kind  and  pitiful, 

Aud  will  relieve  my  woe. 

'  Full  fast  he  hies  then  to  her  court ; 

Where  when  slie  liears  his  moan, 
Relurn'd  him  answer.  That  she  griev'd 

That  all  his  means  were  gone  : 
But  no  way  could  relieve  her  wants ; 

Yet  if  that  he  would  say 
Within  her  kitchen,  he  should  have 

What  scullions  gave  away. 

'  And  calling  to  remembrance  then 
His  youngest  daugliter's  words, 
That  said,  the  duty  of  a  child 
Was  all  that  love  affords  : 


But  doubting  to  repair  to  her, 

Wliom  he  had  banish'd  so, 
Ch-ew  frantic  mad;  for  in  his  mind 

He  bore  the  wounds  of  woe. 

'  Which  made  him  rend  his  milk-white  locks 

And  tresses  from  his  head, 
Aud  all  with  blood  bestain  liis  clieeks. 

With  age  and  honour  spread  ; 
To  hills  and  woods  and  wat'ry  founts. 

He  made  liis  hoiu'ly  moan. 
Till  hills  and  woods  and  seuseless  things. 

Did  seem  to  sigh  and  groan. 

'  And  so  to  England  came  witli  speed. 

To  re-possess  king  Leir, 
And  drive  his  daughters  from  their  tlirones 

By  his  Cordelia  dear  : 
Where  she,  true-hearted  noble  queen. 

Was  in  the  battle  slain  : 
Yet  lie,  good  king,  in  his  old  days, 

Possess'd  his  crown  again. 

But  when  he  heard  Cordelia's  death, 

Who  dy'd  indeed  for  love 
Of  her  dear  father,  in  whose  cause 

She  did  this  battle  move  ; 
He  swooning  fell  upon  her  breast, 

From  whence  he  never  parted : 
But  on  her  bosom  left  his  life, 

That  was  so  truly  hearted. 

'  The  lords  and  nobles  when  they  saw 

The  ends  of  these  events, 
Tlie  other  sisters  unto  death 

They  doomed  by  consents; 
And  being  dead  their  crowns  they  left 

Unto  the  next  of  kin  ; 
Thus  have  you  seen  the  fall  of  pride. 

And  disobedient  sin." 


In  Sidney's  '  Arcadia  '  there  is  a  chapter  entitled  '  The  pitiful  state  and  story  of  the  Paphlago- 
nian  unkind  king,  and  his  kind  son,  first  related  by  the  son,  then  by  the  blind  father.'  This  un- 
questionably furnished  the  dramatic  foundation  of  Gloster  and  Edgar.  It  may  be  sufficient  for  us 
to  give  the  relation  of  the  'kind  son  :' — 

"  This  old  man,  whom  I  lead,  was  lately  rightful  prince  of  Paphlagonia,  by  the  hard-hearted 
ungratefulness  of  a  son  of  his,  deprived  not  only  of  his  kingdom,  but  of  his  sight,  the  riches  which 
398 


KING  LEAR. 

nature  grants  to  the  poorest  creatures ;  whereby  and  by  other  his  unnatural  dealings,  he  hath 
been  driven  to  such  griefs,  as  even  now  he  would  have  had  me  to  have  led  him  to  the  top  of  this 
rock,  thence  to  cast  himself  headlong  to  death  ;  and  so  would  have  had  me,  who  received  my  life  of 
him,  to  be  the  worker  of  his  destruction." 


Period  of  the  Action,  and  Manners. 

The  sagacious  Mrs.  Lenox  informs  us  that  "  Shakspere  has  deviated  widely  from  Historij  in  the 
catastrophe  of  his  play;"  whereat  she  is  somewhat  indignant,  for  "had  Shakspere  followed  the 
historian  he  would  not  have  violated  the  rules  of  poetical  justice."  The  antiquarians  are  as  sensi- 
tive as  the  moralists  upon  this  point.  Had  Shakspere  attended  to  the  chronology  of  the  days  of 
king  Bladud,  and  preserved  a  due  regard  to  the  manners  of  Britain,  at  the  period  when  Romulus 
and  Remus  built  Rome  "  upon  the  eleventh  of  the  Calends  of  May,"  he  would  not  have  given  us 
what  Douce  calls  "a  plentiful  crop  of  blunders."  He  would  have  made  no  allusions,  according  to 
Douce's  literal  view  of  the  matter,  to  Turks,  or  Bedlam  beggars,  or  Childe  Roland,  or  the  theatrical 
moralities,  or  to  Nero.  We  confess,  however,  that  this  inexactitude  of  the  poet  does  not  shock  us 
quite  so  much  as  it  does  the  professional  detectors  of  anachronisms, — those  who  look  upon  such 
allusions  as  "  blunders  "  that  may  disturb  the  empire  of  accuracy  and  dulness,  and  consider  poetry 
as  properly  a  sort  of  ornamented  Appendix  to  a  Cyclopasdia.  We  have  no  desire  to  regard  the 
symbols  by  which  ideas  may  be  most  readily  communicated,  as  the  exponents  of  the  things  themselves 
to  which  they  refer.  We  are  willing  that  a  poet,  describing  events  of  a  purely  fabulous  character, 
represented  by  the  narrators  of  them  as  belonging  to  an  age  to  which  we  cannot  attach  one  precise 
notion  of  costume,  (we  use  the  Avord  in  its  large  sense,)  should  employ  images  that  belong  to  a 
more  recent  period — and  even  to  his  own  time.  It  is  for  the  same  reason  that  we  do  not  object  to 
see  Lear  painted  with  a  diadem  on  his  head,  and  his  knights  in  armour.  It  is  for  this  reason  also, 
that  the  gentleman  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  that  part  of  our  comment  which  relates  to  the 
dress  of  Shakspere's  characters,  has  nothing  to  say  on  the  subject  of  Lear.  We  should  not  much 
quarrel  with  any  theatrical  costume  of  the  tragedy,  excepting,  perhaps,  Garrick's  laced  coat,  and 
Quin's  powdered  periwig.  We  would  leave  these  things  to  the  imaginations  of  our  readers,  (what- 
ever stage-managers  may  do  with  their  audiences,)  lest  we  should  fall  into  some  such  mistake  as 
that  celebrated  in  the  '  Art  of  Sinking  in  Poetry  :' — 

"  A  painted  vest  Prince  Vortigernhad  on, 
Which  from  a  naked  Pict  his  srandsire  won." 


['  My  good  biting  faulchion.'J 


399 


[Scene  IV.] 


ACT   I. 


SCENE  I.— King  Lear's  Palace. 

Enter  Kent,  Gloster,  and  Edmund. 

Kent.  I  thought  the  king  had  more  affected 
the  duke  of  Albany  than  CornwalL 

Glo,  It  did  always  seem  so  to  us  :  but  now, 
in  the  division  of  the  kingdom,*  it  appears  not 
which  of  the  dukes  he  values  most ;  for  qualities'" 
are  so  weigh'd,  that  curiosity*^  in  neither  can 
make  choice  of  cither's  moiety.'' 


•  Johnson  says  "  There  is  something  of  obscurity,  or  inac- 
curacy, ia  this  preparatory  scene.  The  king  has  already 
divided  his  kiugdom,  and  yet,  wlien  he  enters,  lie  examines 
his  daughters  to  discover  in  wliat  proportions  he  should  divide 
it."  Coleridge  has  shown  that  there  is  no  inaccuracy ;  hut 
that  the  king,  having  determined  upon  the  division  of  his 
kingdom,  institutes  the  trial  of  professions  in  strict  accord- 
ance with  his  complicated  character.  (See  Supplementary 
Notice.) 

I"  Qualities.    In  the  quartos  equalities. 

'  Curiosity, — exact  scrutiny. 

■"  Moiety.  In  the  same  way  Hotspur  calls  his  third  share  a 
moiety.  In  both  these  cases  it  is  used  for  an  assigned  pro- 
portion. (See  note  on  Henry  IV.,  Part  i..  Act  m.  Sc.  i.) 

Tragedies.— Voi,.  I.        3  F 


Kent.  Is  not  this  your  son,  my  lord  ? 

Glo.  His  breeding,  sir,  hath  been  at  my 
charge :  I  have  so  often  blush 'd  to  acknowledge 
him,  that  now  I  am  braz'd  to  't. 

Kent.  I  cannot  conceive  you. 

Glo.  Sir,  this  young  fellow's  mother  could : 
whereupon  she  grew  round-wombed ;  and  had 
indeed,  sir,  a  son  for  her  cradle,  ere  she  had  a 
husband  for  her  bed.     Do  you  smell  a  fault? 

Kent.  I  cannot  wish  the  fault  undone,  the 
issue  of  it  being  so  proper. 

Glo.  But  I  have  a  son,  sir,  by  order  of  law, 
some  year  elder  than  this,  who  yet  is  no  dearer 
in  my  account :  though  this  knave  came  some- 
what saucily  to'  the  world  before  he  was  sent 
for,  yet  was  his  mother  fair  ;  there  was  good 
sport  at  his  making,  and  the  whoreson  must  be 
acknowledged. — Do  you  know  this  noble  gen- 
tleman, Edmund  ? 

»  To^the  ([uartos  into. 

401 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[§CENE  I. 


Edm.  No,  my  lord. 

Glo.  My  lord  of  Kent :  remember  him  here- 
after as  my  honourable  friend. 

Edm.  My  services  to  your  lordship. 

Kent.  I  must  love  you,  and  sue  to  know  you 
better. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  shall  study  deserving. 

Glo.  He  hath  been  out  nine  years,  and  away 
lie  shall  again  : — The  king  is  coming. 

l^Trimipefs  sound  within. 

Enter  Lear,  Cornwall,  Albany,  Goneril, 
Regan,  Cordelia,  and  Attendants. 

Lear.  Attend  the  lords  of  France  and  Bur- 
gundy, Gloster. 
Glo.  I  shall,  my  liege. 

[^Exeunt  Gloster  and  Edmund. 
Lear.  Meantime  we  shall  express  our  darker 
purpose. 

Give  me  the  map  there. — Know,  that  we  have 
divided. 

In  three,  our  kingdom  :  and  'tis  our  fast  intent 

To  shake  all  cares  and  business  from  our  age  ; 

Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths,  wliile  we 

Unburthen'd  crawl  toward  death. — Our  son  of 
Cornwall, 

And  you,  our  no  less  loving  son  of  Albany, 

We  have  this  hour  a  constant  will  to  publish 

Our  daughters'  several  dowers,  that  future  strife 

May  be  prevented  now.     The  princes,  France 
and  Burgundy, 

Great  rivals  in  our  youngest  daughter's  love. 

Long  in  our  court  have  made  their  amorous  so- 
journ, 

And  here  are  to  be  answer'd. — Tell  me,    my 
daughters, 

(Since  now  we  will  divest  us,  both  of  rule, 

Interest  of  territory,  cares  of  state,) 

Which  of  you,  shall  we  say,  doth  love  us  most? 

That  we  our  largest  bounty  may  extend 

Where    nature  doth  with  merit    challenge. " — 
Goneril, 

Our  eldest  born,  speak  first. 

Gon.   Sir,   I   love  you   more  than  word  can 
wield  the  matter. 

Dearer  than  eye-sight,  space,  and  liberty ; 

Beyond  what  can  be  valued,  rich  or  rare ; 

No  less  than  life,  with  grace,  health,  beauty, 
honour : 

As  much  as  child  e'er  lov'd,  or  father  found. 

A  love  that  makes  breath  poor,  and  speech  un- 
able ; 

Beyond  all  manner  of  so  much  I  love  you. 


The  quartos  ' 
402 


where  merit  dnth  most  challenge  it." 


Cor.  What  shall  Cordelia  speak  ?  *   Love,  and 
be  silent.  \_Aside. 

T^ear.  Of  all  these  bounds,  even  from  this  line 
to  this. 

With    shadowy    forests    and    with    champains 
rich'd. 

With  plenteous  rivers  and  wide-skirted  meads. 

We  make  thee  lady :    To    thine  and  Albany's 
issues 

Be  this   perpetual.  —  What    says    our   second 
daughter. 

Our  dearest  Regan,  wife  of  Cornwall  ? 

Reg.  I   am   made  of  that  self  metal  as  my 
sister, 

And  prize  me  at  her  worth.     In  my  true  heart 

I  find  she  names  my  very  deed  of  love ; 

Only  she  comes  too  short, — that  I  profess 

Myself  an  enemy  to  all  other  joys. 

Which  the  most  precious  square  of  sense  pos- 
sesses ; 

And  find,  I  am  alone  felicitate 

In  your  dear  highness'  love. 

Cor.  Then  poor  Cordelia  !  [Aside. 

And  yet  not  so ;  since,  I  am  sure,  my  love  's 

More  ponderous  •*  than  my  tongue. 

Lear.  To  thee,  and  thine,  hereditary  ever, 

Remain  this  ample  third  of  ovn*  fair  kingdom  ; 

No  less  in  space,  validity,*'  and  pleasure. 

Than  that  conferr'd*"  on  Goneril. — Now,  our  joy. 

Although    our  last  and  least;  to  whose  young 
love^ 

The  vines  of  France  and  milk  of  Burgundy 

Strive  to  be  interess'd ; '   what  can  you  say,  to 
draw 

A  thii"d  more  opident  than  your  sisters  ?   Speak. 
Cor.  Nothing,  my  lord. 
Lear.  Nothing? 

'  Sprak.  The  quartos  read  "  What  shall  Cordelia  do  ?" 
aud  tliis  feebler  reading,  which  destroys  the  force  of  the 
answer,  "  Love,  and  be  silent,"  is  received  by  all  the 
modern  editors. 

*"  Ponderous.    The  quartos,  n'c/ier. 

•^  Validity — value,  worth. 

*  Gonferr'd.  The  quartos  read  conjirm'd.  In  the  same 
way,  in  the  beginning  of  the  scene,  when  Lear,  according  to 
the  folio,  says,  "  Conferring  them  on  younger  strengths," — 
the  quarto  reads  cunjirming.  The  modern  editors  adopt  the 
reading  of  the  folio  in  the  first  instance,  and  reject  it  In  the 
second. 

«  We  give  the  text  asit  stands  in  the  folio,  by  which  we  lose 
the  words  which  have  passed  into  a  household  phrase,  "  Al- 
though the  last  not  least."  But  in  truth  the  modern  text  is 
not  to  be  found  in  any  edition  of  Shakspere.  The  quartos 
read, — 

"  But  now  our  joy. 
Although  the  last,  not  least  in  our  dear  love. 
What  cau  you  say  to  win  a  third,  more  opulent 
Than  your  sisters  ?  " 
It  will  be  seen  that  the  poet  has  revised  his  text,  re-arranging 
the  lines,  and  introducing  a  new  member  of  the  sentence,  "to 
whose  yoimg  love,"  &c.     Johnson  says,  "  The  true  reading 
is  \iicked  out  of  two  copies  ;"  but  surely  this  mode  of  picking 
out  is  lea.st  likely  to  furnish  us  with  the  true  reading. 

f  Interess'd.  This  verb,  from  the  French  interesser,  is  used 
also  by  Beu  Jonson  and  Massinger. 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[S(-KNK    I. 


Cor.  Nothing. 

Lear.  Nothing  will  come  of  nothing  :*  speak 
again. 

Cor.  Unhappy  that  I  am,  I  cannot  heave 
My  heart  into  my  mouth  ;  I  love  your  majesty 
According  to  my  bond  ;  no  more,  nor  less. 

Lear.  How,  how,  Cordelia  ?  mend  your  speech 
a  little. 
Lest  you  ^  may  mar  j^our  fortunes. 

Cor.  Good  my  lord, 

You  have  begot  me,  bred  me,  lov'd  me  :  I 
Return  those  duties  back  as  are  right  fit. 
Obey  you,  love  you,  and  most  honoiir  you. 
Why  have  my  sisters  husbands,  if  they  say 
They  love  you,  all  ?     Haply,  when  I  shall  wed. 
That  lord  whose  hand  must  take  my  plight  shall 

carry 
Half  my  love  with  him,  half  my  care,  and  duty : 
Sure,  I  shall  never  marry  like  my  sisters, 
[To  love  my  father  all.<=] 

Lear.  But  goes  thy  heart  with  this  ?  "* 

Cor.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Lear.  So  young,  and  so  untender? 

Cor.  So  young,  my  lord,  and  true. 

Lear.  Let  it  be  so  : — Thy  truth  then  be  thy 
dower  : 
For,  by  the  sacred  radiance  of  the  sun  ; 
The  mysteries  of  Hecate  and  the  night ; 
By  all  the  operation  of  the  orbs. 
From  whom  we  do  exist,  and  cease  to  be ; 
Here  I  disclaim  all  my  paternal  care. 
Propinquity  and  property  of  blood. 
And  as  a  stranger  to  my  heart  and  me 
Hold  thee,  from  this,  for  ever.     The  barbarous 

Scythian, 
Or  he  that  makes  his  generation  messes 
To  gorge  his  appetite,  shall  to  my  bosom 
Be  as  well  neighbour'd,  pitied,  and  reliev'd, 
As  thou,  my  sometime  daughter. 

Kent.  Good  my  liege, — 

Lear.  Peace,  Kent ! 
Come  not  betweeen  the  dragon  and  his  wrath  : 
I  lovd  her  most,  and  thought  to  set  my  rest 
On  her  kind  nursery. — Hence,  and  avoid  my 
sight! —  [To  Cordelia. 

So  be  my  grave  my  peace,  as  here  I  give 


•  Tlie  quartos  read  "  nothing  can  come  of  nothing."  The 
ancient  saying,  ex  nihilo  nihil  Jit,  is  repeated  in  the  fourth 
scene  of  this  act  even  more  literally :  "  nothing  can  be  made 
out  of  nothing." 

">  you — the  quartos,  it. 

'  The  line  in  brackets  is  not  found  in  the  folio. 

^  The  quartos  read,  "  But  goes  this  with  thy  lieart?"  and 
Malone  attributes  the  change  in  the  folio  to  the  editor  of 
that  edition,  who,  he  says,  did  not  understand  this  kind  of 
phraseology.  We  have  no  doubt,  speaking  generally,  that 
the  minute  changes  of  language  in  the  folio  are  of  the  author, 
not  of  the  editor. 


Her  father's  heart  from  her!  — Call  France; — 

Who  stirs? 
Call  Burgundy. — Cornwall  and  Albany, 
With  my  two  daughters'  dowers  digest  the  third  : 
Let  pride,  which  she  calls  plainness,  marry  her. 
I  do  invest  you  jointly  with  my  power, 
Pre-eminence,  and  all  the  large  effects 
That  troop  with  majesty. — Ourself,  by  monthly 

coiu-se. 
With  reservation  of  an  hundred  knights, 
By  you  to  be  sustain 'd,  shall  our  abode 
Make  with  you  by  due  turn.     Only  we  shall 

retain 
The  name,  and  all  the  additions  to  a  king ; 
The  sway. 

Revenue,  execution  of  the  rest, 
Beloved  sons,  be  yours :  which  to  confirm, 
This  coronet  part  between  you, 

\_Giving  the  croiim. 
Kent.  Royal  Lear, 

Whom  I  have  ever  honour'd  as  my  king, 
Lov'd  as  my  father,  as  my  master  follow 'd. 
As  my  great  patron  thought  on  in  my  prayers, — 
Lear.  The  bow  is  bent  and  drawn,  make  from 

the  shaft. 
Kent.  Let  it  fall  rather,  though  the  fork  in- 
vade 
The  region  of  my  heart :  be  Kent  unmannerly, 
When    Lear  is  mad.     What  wouldst  thou  do, 

old  man  1 
Think'st  thou  that   duty  shall   have    dread  to 

speak. 
When   power  to  flattery  bows  ?     To  plainness 

honour's  bound. 
When  majesty  falls  "  to  folly.    Reserve  thy  state  -^ 
And,  in  thy  best  consideration,  check 
This  hideous  rashness  :  answer  my  life  my  judg- 
ment, 
Thy  youngest  daughter  does  not  love  thee  least ; 
Nor  are  those  empty-hearted,  whose  low  sounds 
Reverb  no  hollowness. 

Lear.  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 

Kent.  My  life  I  never  held  but  as  a  pawn 
To  wage  against  thine  enemies ;  ne'er  fear  to 

lose  it. 
Thy  safety  being  motive. 

Lear.  Out  of  my  sight ! 

Kent.  See  better,  Lear ;  and  let  me  still  re- 
main 
The  true  blank  of  thine  eye. 
Lear.  Now,  by  Apollo, — 
Kent.  Now,  by  Apollo,  king, 

Thou  swear 'st  thy  gods  in  vain. 

•  Falls— t\\e  quartos,  stoops. 

^  Reserve  thy  state — tlie  quartos,  reverse  thy  doom. 

403 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  I. 


Lear.  O,  vassal!  miscreant  I 

\_Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 
Alb.  Corn.  Dear  sir,  forbear. 
Kent.  Kill  thy  physician,  and  thy  fee  bestow 
Upon  the  foul  disease.     Revoke  thy  gift ; 
Or,  wliilst  1  can  vent  clamonr  from  my  throat, 
I'll  tell  thee,  thou  dost  evil. 

Lear.  Hear  me,  recreant ! 

On  thine  allegiance,  hear  me  ! — 
That  thou  hast  sought  to  make  vis  break  our  vows, 
(Which  we  durst  never  yet,)  and,  with  strain'd 

pride. 
To  come  betwixt  our  sentences  and  our  power, 
(Which  nor  our  nature  nor  our  place  can  bear,) 
Our  potency  made  good,  take  thy  reward. 
Five  days  we  do  allot  thee  for  provision 
To  shield  thee  from  disasters*  of  the  world; 
And,  on  the  sixth,  to  turn  thy  hated  back 
Upon  our  kingdom  :  if,  on  the  tenth  day  follow- 
ing. 
Thy  banish'd  trunk  be  found  in  our  dominions, 
The  moment  is  thy  death  :  Away  !  by  Jupiter,  •• 
This  shall  not  be  revok'd. 

Kent.  Fare  thee  well,  king  :    sith  thus  thou 
wilt  appear, 
Freedom  lives  hence,  and  banishment  is  here. — 
The  gods  to  their  dear  shelter  take  thee,  maid, 

\^To  Cordelia. 

That  justly  think'st,  and  hast  most  rightly  said  ! — 

And  your  large  speeches  may  your  deeds  approve, 

[jTo  Regan  and  Goneril. 

That   good   effects  may  spi-ing   from  words  of 

love. — 
Thus  Kent,  O  princes,  bids  you  all  adieu : 
He  '11  shape  his  old  course  in  a  country  new. 

lExit. 

Re-enter  Gloster;   tvitli  France,  Burgundy, 
and  Attendants. 

Glo.  Here 's  France  and  Burgundy,  my  noble 

lord. 
Lear.  My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
We  first  address  toward  you,  wlio  with  this  king 
Hath  rivall'd  for  our  daughter:   What,  in  the 
least, 

•  Disasters — the  quartos,  diseases. 

•■  By  Jupiter. — Johnson  says,  "  Shakspere  makes  his  Leai- 
too  niucli  of  a  mythologist;  he  had  Hecate  and  Apollo  be- 
fore." Our  poet  was  perfectly  justified  by  the  example  of 
the  chroniclers  in  makins;  Lear  invoke  the  heathen  deities. 
In  Holinshed,  where  he  found  the  story  of  Lear,  is  also 
given  this  account  of  Baldud,  or  Bladud,  Lear's  father  : 
"  This  Baldud  took  such  pleasure  in  artificial  practices  and 
magic,  that  he  taught  this  art  throughout  his  realm  ;  and  to 
show  his  cunning  in  other  points,  upon  a  presumptuous 
pleasure  which  he  had  therein,  he  took  upon  him  to  fly  in 
tlie  aiv;  but  he  fell  upon  the  temple  of  Apollo,  which  stood 
in  the  city  Troinovant,  and  there  was  torn  in  pieces,  after  he 
had  ruled  the  Britons  by  the  siiace  of  twenty  years." 

404 


Will  you  require  in  present  dower  with  her, 
Or  cease  your  quest  of  love  ? 

Bur.  Most  royal  majesty, 

I  crave  no  more  than  hath  your  highness  ofFer'd, 
Nor  will  you  tender  less. 

Lear.  Right  noble  Burgundy, 

When  she  was  dear  to  us,  we  did  hold  her  so; 
But  now  her  price  is  fall'n :  Sir,  there  she  stands ; 
If  aught  witliin  tliat  little,  seeming  substance. 
Or  all  of  it,  with  our  displeasure  piec'd. 
And  nothing  more,  may  fitly  like  your  grace, 
She 's  there,  and  she  is  yours. 

Bur.  I  know  no  answer. 

Lear.  Will   you,  with  those   infirmities   she 
owes. 
Unfriended,  new-adopted  to  our  hate, 
Dower'd  with  our  curse,  and  stranger'd  with  oiu" 

oath, 
Take  her,  or  leave  her  ? 

Bur.  Pardon  me,  royal  sir, 

Election  makes  not  up  in  such  conditions.  " 

Lear.  Then  leave  her,  sir  ;  for,  by  the  power 
that  made  me, 
I  tell  you  all  Iter  wealth. — For  you,  great  king, 

[7'o  France. 
I  would  not  from  your  love  make  such  a  stray, 
To  match  you  where  I  hate  ;   therefore  beseech 

you 
To  avert  your  liking  a  more  worthier  way. 
Than  on  a  wretch  whom  nature  is  asliam'd 
Almost  to  acknowledge  hers. 

France.  This  is  most  strange  ! 

That   she,    who  even  but  now  was  yoiu-  best 
^  object,'' 

The  argument  of  yoiu-  praise,  balm  of  your  age, 
The  best,  the  dearest,  should  in  this  trice  of  time 
Commit  a  thing  so  monstrous,  to  dismantle 
So  many  folds  of  favour !  Sure,  her  offence 
Must  be  of  such  unnatural  degree. 
That  monsters  it,   or  yovn-  fore-vouch'd  affection 
Fall  into  taint:  "^  which  to  believe  of  her. 
Must  be  a  faith  that  reason  without  miracle 
Should  never  plant  in  me. 

Cor.  I  yet  beseech  your  majesty, 

(If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art. 
To  speak  and  pm-pose  not ;    since  what  I  well 
intend, 

«  The  quartos  read  "  o»  such  conditions;"  and  M.  Mason 
proposes  to  read — 

"  Election  makes  not,  upun  such  conditions." 
To  make  up  is  here  to  decide — to  conclude  ; — the  choice  of 
Burgundy  refuses  to  come  to  a  decision,  in  such  circum- 
stances, or  <m  such  terms. 

b  Be4  is  omitted  in  the  folio,  but  is  found  iu  the  quartos. 

«  M.  Mason  interprets  the  passage  thus: — Her  offence 
must  be  monstrous,  or  the  former  affection  which  you  pro- 
fessed for  her  must  fall  into  laiut — become  the  subject  of 
reproach. 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SrKNK    I. 


I  '11  do  't  before  I  speak,)  that  you  make  known 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murther,  or  foulness, 
No  unchaste  action  or  dishonour'd  step. 
That  hath  depriv'd  me  of  your  grace  and  favour : 
But  even  for  want  of  that  for  which  I  am  richer, 
A  still-soliciting  ej'e,  and  such  a  tongue 
That  I  am  glad  I  have  not,  though  not  to  have  it 
Hath  lost  me  in  your  liking. 

Lear.  Better  thou 

Had'st  not  been  born  than  not  t'  have  pleas'd 
me  better. 

France.  Is  it  but  this?  a  tardiness  in  nature, 
AVhich  often  leaves  the  history  luispoke 
That  it  intends  to  do  ? — My  lord  of  Burgundy, 
What  say  you  to  the  lady  ?  Love 's  not  love, 
When  it  is  mingled  with  regards  "  that  stand 
Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     Will  you  have  her? 
She  is  herself  a  dowry. 

Bur.  Royal  king,'' 

Give  but  that  portion  which  yourself  propos'd, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand, 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

Lear.  Nothing  :  I  have  sworn  ;  I  am  firm. 

Bur.  I  am  sorry,  then,  you  have  so  lost  a 
father 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

Cor.  Peace  be  with  Burgundy  ! 

Since  that  respects  of  fortune*^  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 

France.  Fairest  Cordelia,  that  art  most  rich, 
being  poor ; 
Most  choice,  forsaken  ;  and  most  lov'd,  despis'd! 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon : 
Be  it  lawful,  I  take  up  what 's  cast  away. 
Gods,  gods !   'tis  strange,  that  from  their  cold'st 

neglect 
My  love  should  kindle  to  inflam'd  respect. — 
Thy  dowerless  daughter,  king,    thrown  to  my 

chance. 
Is  queen  of  us,  of  ours,  and  our  fair  France: 
Not  all  the  dukes  of  wat'rish  Burgundy 
Can  buy  this  unpriz'd  precious  maid  of  me. — 
Bid  them  farewell,  Cordelia,  though  unkind : 
Thou  losest  here,  a  better  where  ^  to  find. 

Lear.  Thou  hast   her,    France:    let  her  be 
thine,  for  we 
Have  no  such  daughter,  nor  shall  ever  see 
That  face  of  hers  again  : — Therefore  be  gone, 

"  Regards,  the  reading  of  the  folio,  means  consideratiuns; 
the  quartos  read  respects,  which  lias  the  same  meaning. 

i"  Rtit/iil  king  in  the  folio  ;  the  quartos  Royal  Lear. 

"=  Respects  uf fortune — so  the  quartos ;  the  folio,  respect  and 
fortunes. 

*  Here  and  whire  are  used  as  nouns.     We  have  a  similar 
use  of  where  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  Act  ii.,  Sc.  i. 

"  How  if  your  husband  start  some  other  where?" 
See  note  on  that  passage. 


Without  our  grace,  our  love,  our  benizon. 
Come,  noble  Burgundy. 

{^Flourish.  Exeunt  hE.AR,  Burgundy,  Corn- 
wall, Albany,  Gloster,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

France.  Bid  farewell  to  your  sisters. 

Cor.  The  jewels  of  our  father,  with  wash'deyes 
Cordelia  leaves  you  :  I  know  you  what  you  are; 
And,  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 
Your  faults  as  they  are  nam'd.    Love  *  well  our 

father : 
To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him  : 
But  yet,  alas  !  stood  I  Avithin  his  grace, 
I  would  prefer  him  to  a  better  place. 
So  farewell  to  you  both. 

Beg.  Prescribe  not  us  our  duties. '' 

Go7i.  Let  your  study 

Be,  to  content  your  lord ;  who  hath  receiv'd  you 

At  fortune's  alms.     You  have  obedience  scanted, 

And  well  are  worth  the  want   that  you  have 

wanted. 

Cor.  Time  shall  unfold  what  plighted  *  cun- 
ning hides ; 
Who  covers  faults  at  last  with  shame  derides.** 
Well  may  you  prosper  ! 

France.  Come,  my  fair  Cordelia. 

\_Exeunt  France  awe?  Cordelia. 

Gon.  Sister,  it  is  not  little  I  have  to  say,  of 
what  most  nearly  appertains  to  us  both,  I  think 
oiu'  father  will  hence  to-night. 

Beg.  That 's  most  certain,  and  with  you ; 
next  month  with  us. 

Gon,  You  see  how  full  of  changes  his  age  is  ; 
the  observation  we  have  made  of  it  hath  been 
little :  he  always  loved  our  sister  most ;  and 
Avith  what  poor  judgment  he  hath  now  cast  her 
off  appears  too  grossly. 

Beg.  'Tis  the  infirmity  of  his  age :  yet  he  hath 
ever  but  slenderly  known  himself. 

Gon.  The  best  and  soundest  of  his  time  hath 
been  but  rash :  then  must  we  look  from  his  age 
to  receive  not  alone  the  imperfections  of  long- 
engrafFed  condition,  but,  therewithal,  the  unruly 

•  Lme — the  quatros  use. 

•>  In  the  quartos  this  speech  is  given  to  Goneril,  and  the 
next  to  Regan. 

<' Plighted — the  quartos  read  p/cafed.  In  modern  editions 
we  have  plaited.  To  plight,  and  to  plait,  equally  mean  to 
fold.  In  Milton's  '  History  of  England,'  Boadicea  wears  "  a 
plighted  garment  of  divers  colours."  In  the  exquisite  pas- 
sage in  '  Comus' — 

"  I  took  it  for  a  fairy  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element. 
That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live. 
And  play  i'  Hi' plighted  clouds"— 
the  ejiitliet  has  the  same  meaning. 
■*  This  line  is  ordinarily  printed — 

"Who  cover  faults,  at  last  shame  them  derides." 
But  we  have  no  doubt  that  the  reading  of  the  folio  is  right, 
and  that  who  rel'ers  to  time . 

405 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  II. 


waywardness  that  infirm  and  choleric  years 
bring  with  them. 

Reg.  Such  unconstant  starts  are  Ave  like  to 
have  from  him,  as  this  of  Kent's  banishment. 

Gon.  There  is  farther  compliment  of  leave- 
taking  between  France  and  him.  Pray  you,  let 
us  sit "  together :  if  our  father  carry  authority 
with  such  dispositions  as  he  bears,  this  last  sur- 
render of  his  will  but  offend  us. 

Reg,  We  shall  further  think  of  it. 

Gon.  We  must  do  something,  and  i'  the  heat. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Hall  in  the  Earl  of  Gloster's 
Castle. 

Enter  Edmund,  with  a  letter. 

Edm.  Thou,  nature,  art  my  goddess ;  to  thy 
law 
My  services  are  bound :  Wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom ;  and  permit 
The  curiosity  ''  of  nations  to  deprive  me. 
For  that  I  am  some  twelve   or  fourteen  moon- 
shines 
Lag  of  a  brother  ?     Why  bastard  ?     Wherefore 

base? 
When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true, 
As  honest  madam's  issue  ?     Why  brand  they  us 
With  base?  with  baseness?  bastardy?  base,  base? 
Who,  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature,  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality, 
Than  doth,  within  a  dull,  stale,  tired  bed. 
Go  to  the  creating  a  whole  tribe  of  fops. 
Got  'tween  asleep  and  wake  ? — Well,  then, 
Legitimate  Edgar,  I  must  have  your  land : 
Our  father's  love  is  to  the  bastard  Edmund, 
As  to  the  legitimate :  Fine  word, — legitimate ! 
Well,  my  legitimate,  if  this  letter  speed, 
And  my  invention  thrive,  Edmund  the  base 
Shall  top  the  legitimate.*^    I  grow ;  I  prosper  : — 
Now,  gods,  stand  up  for  bastards ! 

Enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Kent banish'd  thus!  and  France  in  cho- 
ler  parted  ! 
And  the  king  gone  to-night!    prescrib'd'^  his 
power ! 


'  Sit — the  quarto,  hit. 

^  Curiosity.— In  the  first  scene  this  word  is  used  in  tlie  sense 
of  exact  scrutiny;  in  the  passage  before  us  the  meaning 
approaches  more  nearly  io  fastidiousness. 

"  Top  the  legitimate. — In  the  folio  we  find  to'  th'  legitimate ; 
in  the  quarto,  tooth'  legitimate.  Top  was  suggested  by  Ed- 
wards in  the  '  Canons  of  Criticism.'  Toe  is  Hanmer's  read- 
ing. 

^  Prescrih'd — the  quarto  reads  subscrib'd. 
406 


Confin'd  to  exhibition !  '  All  this  done 

Upon  the  gad ! Edmund !  How  now ;  what 

news? 

Ed7n.  So  please  your  lordship,  none. 

{^Putting  up  the  letter. 

Glo.  Why  so  earnestly  seek  you  to  put  up 
that  letter  ? 

Edm.  I  know  no  news,  my  lord. 

Glo.  What  paper  were  you  reading  ? 

Edm.  Nothing,  my  lord. 

Glo.  No?  what  needed  then  that  terrible  de- 
spatch of  it  into  yoiu:  pocket?  the  quality  of 
nothing  hath  not  such  need  to  hide  itself.  Let 's 
see  :  Come,  if  it  be  nothing,  I  shall  not  need 
spectacles. 

Edm.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  pardon  me  :  it  is  a 
letter  from  my  brothei*,  that  I  have  not  all  o'er- 
read  :  and  for  so  much  as  I  have  perused,  I  find 
it  not  fit  for  your  o'er-looking. 

Glo.  Give  me  the  letter,  sir. 

Edm.  I  shall  offend,  either  to  detain  or  give 
it.  The  contents,  as  in  part  I  understand  them, 
are  to  blame. 

Glo.  Let's  see,  let's  see. 

Edm.  I  hope,  for  my  brother's  justification, 
he  wrote  this  but  as  an  essay  ^  or  taste  of  my 
virtue. 

Glo.  [Reads.l  '  This  policy,  and  reverence  of  age,  makes 
the  world  bitter  to  the  best  of  our  times  ;  keeps  our  for- 
tunes from  us,  till  our  oldness  cannot  relish  them.  I  be- 
gin to  find  an  idle  and  fond  bondage  in  the  oppression  of 
aged  tyranny ;  who  sways,  not  as  it  hath  power,  but  as  it  is 
suffered.  Come  to  me,  that  of  this  1  may  speak  more.  If 
our  father  would  sleep  till  I  waked  him,  you  should  enjoy 
half  his  revenue  for  ever,  and  live  the  beloved  of  your 
brother,  Edgar.' 

Humph — Conspiracy ! 

'  Sleep  till  I  waked  him, — you  should  enjoy  half  his  re- 
venue,'— 

My  son  Edgar  !  Had  he  a  hand  to  write  this  ? 
a  heart  and  brain  to  breed  it  in  ?  When  came 
you  to  this  ?    Who  brought  it? 

Edm.  It  was  not  bi-ought  me,  my  lord ;  there 's 
the  cunning  of  it:  I  found  it  thrown  in  at  the 
casement  of  my  closet. 

Glo.  You  know  the  character  to  be  your 
brother's  ? 

Edm.  If  the  matter  were  good,  my  lord,  I 
durst  swear  it  were  his ;  but,  in  respect  of  that, 
I  would  fain  think  it  were  not. 


"  Exhibition — allowance. 

••  Essay — assay — say — signified  such  proof  or  examination 
as  was  made  by  the  assayer  of  coin,  or  the  taster  at  royal 
tables.  In  the  latter  sense  we  have  the  word  in  Chapman's 
'  Homer' — 

"  Atrides  with  his  knife  took  say  upon  the  part  before." 
We  have  the  word  say  in  a  subsequent  scene  (Act  v.,  Sc.  ill.) — 

"  And  that  tliy  tongue  some  say  of  breeding  breathes." 


Act  1.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SiTKNK    II. 


Glo.  It  is  his. 

Edm.  It  is  his  hand,  my  lord;  hut  I  hope  his 
heart  is  not  in  the  contents. 

Glo.  Has  he  never  heretofore  sounded  you  in 
this  business  ? 

Edm.  Never,  my  lord :  But  I  have  heard  him 
oft  maintain  it  to  be  fit,  that,  sons  at  perfect  age, 
and  fathers  declined,*  the  father  should  be  as 
ward  to  the  son,  and  the  son  manage  his  re- 
venue. 

Glo.  O  villain,  villain! — His  very  opinion  in 
the  letter! — Abhorred  villain!  Unnatural,  de- 
tested, brutish  villain!  worse  than  brutish  ! — Go, 
sirrah,  seek  him;  I'll  apprehend  him: — Abomi- 
nable villahi ! — Where  is  he  ? 

Edm.  I  do  not  well  know,  my  lord.  If  it 
shall  please  you  to  suspend  your  indignation 
against  my  brother,  till  you  can  derive  from  him 
better  testimony  of  his  intent,  you  should  run  a 
certain  course;  where,*"  if  you  violently  proceed 
against  him,  mistaking  his  purpose,  it  would 
make  a  great  gap  in  your  own  honour,  and  shake 
in  pieces  the  heart  of  his  obedience.  I  dare 
pawn  down  my  life  for  him,  that  he  hath  writ 
this  to  feel  my  affection  to  your  honour,  and  to 
no  other  pretence  •=  of  danger. 

Glo.  Think  yon  so  1 

Edm.  If  your  honour  judge  it  meet,  I  will 
place  you  where  you  shall  hear  us  confer  of 
this,  and  by  an  auricular  assurance  have  your 
satisfaction  ;  and  that  without  any  further  delay 
than  this  very  evening. 

Glo.  He  cannot  be  such  a  monster. 

\_Edm.  Nor  is  not,  sure. 

Glo.  To  his  father,  that  so  tenderly  and  en- 
tirely loves  him. — Heaven  and  earth  ! — •"]  Ed- 
mund, seek  him  out;  wind  me  into  him,  I  pray 
you ;  frame  the  business  after  your  own  wisdom  : 
I  would  unstate  myself,  to  be  in  a  due  resolu- 
tion.^ 

Edm.  I  will  seek  him,  sir,  presently  ;  convey  ^ 
the  business  as  I  shall  find  means,  and  acquaint 
you  withal. 

Glo.  These  late  eclipses  in  the  sun  and  moon 
portend  no  good  to  us :  Though  the  wisdom  of 


*  Declined — the  quartos,  declining. 

>>  fVhere — in  the  sense  of  whereas. 

"  Pretence — purpose. 

''  The  passage  between  brackets  is  omitted  in  the  folio. 

«  There  are  several  explanations  of  this  passage.  Steevens 
represents  Gloster  to  say,  he  would  unstate  Iiimself  to  be 
sufficiently  resolved  to  punish  Edgar — that  is,  he  would  give 
up  his  rank  and  his  fortune ;  Mason,  he  would  give  all  lie 
possessed  to  be  certain  of  the  truth ;  Johnson ,  I  would  unstate 
myself — it  would  in  me  be  a  departure  from  the  paternal 
character — to  be  iu  a  due  resolution — to  be  settled  and  com- 
posed on  such  an  occasion.  Tieck  inclines  to  Johnson's  ex- 
planation. 

f  Convey — manage. 


nature  can  reason  it  thus  and  thus,  yet  nature 
finds  itself  scourged  by  the  sequent  effects  :  love 
cools,  friendship  falls  oft',  brothers  divide  :  in 
cities,  muthiies;  in  countries,  discord;  in  palaces, 
treason ;  and  the  bond  cracked  'twixt  son  and 
father.  This  villain  of  mine  comes  under  the 
prediction ;  there's  son  against  father :  the  king 
falls  from  bias  of  nature  ;  there 's  father  against 
child.  We  have  seen  the  best  of  our  time: 
Machinations,  hollowness,  treachery,  and  all 
ruinous  disorders,  follow  us  disquietly  to  our 
graves  ! — Find  out  this  villain,  Edmund;  it  shall 
lose  thee  nothing  ;  do  it  carefully  : — And  the 
noble  and  true-hearted  Kent  banished!  his 
offence,  honesty ! — 'Tis  strange  !  \_Exit. 

Edm.  This  is  the  excellent  foppery  of  the 
world !  that,  when  we  are  sick  in  fortune,  (often 
the  siu-feit  of  our  own  behaviour,)  we  make 
guilty  of  our  disasters  the  sun,  the  moon,  and 
stars  :  as  if  we  were  villains  on  necessity  ;  fools 
by  heavenly  compulsion  ;  knaves,  thieves,  and 
treachers,*  by  spherical  predominance  ;  drunk- 
ards, liars,  and  adulterers,  by  an  enforced  obe- 
dience of  planetary  influence  ;  and  all  that  we 
are  evil  in,  by  a  divine  thrusting  on :  An  admi- 
rable evasion  of  whore-master  man,  to  lay  his 
goatish  disposition  on  the  charge  of  a  star  !  My 
father  compounded  with  my  mother  under  the 
dragon's  tail ;  and  my  nativity  was  under  ursa 
major  :  so  that  it  follows,  I  am  rough  and  lecher- 
ous.— I  should  have  been  that  I  am,  had  the 
maidenliest  star  in  the  firmament  twinkled  on 
my  bastardizing. 

Enter  Edgar. 
Pat:  he  comes  like  the  catastrophe  of  the  old 
comedy :  My  cue  is  villainous  melancholy,  with  a 
sigh  like  Tom  o'  Bedlam. — O,  these  eclipses  do 
portend  these  divisions !  fa,  sol,  la,  mi. 

Edg.  How  now,  brother  Edmund?  What 
serious  contemplation  are  you  in  ? 

Edm.  I  am  thinking,  brother,  of  a  prediction 
I  read  this  other  day,  what  should  follow  these 
eclipses. 

Edg.  Do  you  busy  yourself  with  that  ? 

Edm.  1  promise  you,  the  effects  he  writes  of 
succeed  unhappily ;  [as  of  unnaturalness  be- 
tween the  child  and  the  parent ;  death,  dearth, 
dissolutions  of  ancient  amities ;  divisions  in 
state,  menaces  and  maledictions  against  king 
and  nobles ;  needless  diffidences,  banishment  of 
friends,  dissipation  of  cohorts,  nuptial  breaches, 
and  I  know  not  what. 

»  Trenchers.  Treacher  is  the  French  tricheur,  a  trickster 
—a  cheat.  The  word  is  used  by  Chaucer,  by  Spenser,  and 
the  dramatic  contemporaries  of  Shakspere. 

407 


Act  1.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SOENFSlIl    IV. 


Edg.  How  long  have  you  been  a  sectary 
astronomical? 

Edm.  Come,  come  ;*]  when  saw  you  my  father 
last  ? 

Edg.  The  night  gone  by. 

Edm.  Spake  you  with  him  1 

Edg.  Ay,  two  hours  together. 

Edm.  Parted  you  in  good  terms?  Found  you 
no  displeasure  in  him,  byword,  or  countenance? 

Edg.  None  at  all. 

Edm.  Bethink  yourself  wherein  you  may  have 
offended  him :  and  at  my  entreaty  forbear  his 
presence,  till  some  little  time  hath  qualified  the 
heat  of  his  displeasure;  which  at  this  instant 
so  rageth  in  him,  that  with  the  mischief  of  your 
person  it  would  scarcely  allay. 

Edg.  Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Edm.  That 's  my  fear.  I  pray  you  have  a 
continent  forbearance,  till  the  speed  of  his  rage 
goes  slower ;  and,  as  I  say,  retire  with  me  to 
my  lodging,  from  whence  I  will  fitly  bring  you 
to  hear  my  lord  speak :  Pray  you,  go ;  there 's 
my  key  : — If  you  do  stir  abroad  go  armed. 

Edg.  Armed,  brother? 

Edm.  Brother,  I  advise  you  to  the  best.**  I 
am  no  honest  man  if  there  be  any  good  meaning 
toward  you:  I  have  told  you  what  I  have 
seen  and  heard,  but  faintly;  nothing  like  the 
image  and  horror  of  it:  Pray  you,  away. 

Edg.  Shall  I  hear  from  you  anon? 

Edm.  I  do  serve  you  in  this  business. — 

\_Exit  Edgar. 
A  credulous  father,  and  a  brother  noble, 
Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms 
That  he  suspects  none ;  on  whose  foolish  honesty 
My  practices  ride  easy  ! — I  see  the  business. — 
Let  me,  if  not  by  birth,  have  lands  by  wit : 
All  with  me  's  meet  that  I  can  fashion  fit.  \_Exit. 

SCENE  III. — J  Room  in  the  Duke  of  Albany's 
Palace. 

Enter  Goneril  and  Steward. 

Gon.  Did  my  father  strike  my  gentleman  for 
chiding  of  his  fool? 

»  The  passages  between  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 

•j  We   print  the   passages    beginning   "  that's   my    fear" 
according  to  tl\e   text  of  the  folio.    The   dialogue  in  the 
quartos  is  raucli  briefer — 
"  Edy.  Some  villain  hath  done  me  wrong. 

Bast.  That's  my  fear,  brother ;  I  advise  you  to  the  best,  go 
arm'd." 

The  advice  here  is  simply  go  arm'd.  In  the  text  of  the 
folio  Edmund  also  advises  his  brother  to  retire  with  him  to 
his  lodging.  The  modern  editors  take  all  they  can  find  in  the 
folio,  and  all  in  the  quartos,  and  upon  this  jirinciple  keep  the 
gn  arm'd  of  the  quartos  after  brother,  I  advise  you  to  the  best, 
when,  as  the  speech  is  altered  in  the  folio,  those  words  rel'erto 
other  matters  than  go  arm'd. 

408 


Stew.  Ay,  madam. 

Gon.  By  day  and  night  he  wrongs  me  ;*  every 
hour 
He  flashes  into  one  gross  crime  or  other. 
That  sets  us  all  at  odds  :   I'll  not  endure  it : 
His  knights  grow  riotous,  and  himself  upbraids  us 
On  every  trifle  : — When  he  returns  from  hunting 
I  will  not  speak  with  him ;  say,  I  am  sick  : — 
If  you  come  slack  of  former  services 
You  shall  do  well ;  the  fault  of  it  I  '11  answer. 

Stetv.  He 's  coming,  madam  ;  I  hear  him. 

[^Horns  wiihin. 

Gon.  Put   on   what    weary    negligence   you 
please. 
You  and   your   fellows  ;    I  'd  have  it  come  to 

question  : 
If  he  distaste  it,''  let  him  to  my  sister. 
Whose  mind  and  mine,  I  know,  in  that  are  one, 
[Not  to  be  over-rul'd.     Idle  old  man, 
That  still  would  manage  those  authorities 
That  he  hath  given  away  ! — Now,  by  my  life, 
Old  fools  are  babes  again ;  and  nmst  be  us'd 
With  checks,  as  flatteries, — when  they  are  seen 

abus'd.'=] 
Remember  what  I  have  said. 

Stew.  Well,  madam. 

Gon.  And  let  his  knights  have  colder  looks 
among  you;  what  grows  of  it  no  matter;  ad- 
vise your  fellows  so:  [I  would  breed  from  hence 
occasions,  and  I  shall,  that  I  may  speak  :] — I'll 
write  straight  to  my  sister,  to  hold  my  course  : — 
Prepare  for  dinner.**  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  IN.— A  Hall  in  the  same. 

Enter  Kent,  disguised. 

Kent.  If  but  as  well  I  other  accents  borrow, 
That  can  my  speech  diffuse,  my  good  intent 
May  carry  through  itself  to  that  full  issue 
For  which  I  raz'd  my  likeness. — Now,  banish'd 
Kent, 

■  This  is  ordinarily  pointed, 

"  By  day  and  night!  he  wrongs  me." 
We  doubt,  however,  whether  by  day  and  night  was  meant  as 
an  adjuration.     We  have  indeed  in  Hamlet — 

"  O  day  and  night !  but  this  is  wondrous  strange." 
But  we  think  with  Steevens  that,  in  the  passage  before  us,  by 
day  and  night  means  always, — every  way, — constantly. 

I"  Distaste — the  quartos  dislike. 

"  The  passage  in  brackets  is  omitted  in  the  folio. 

*  This  speech  has  been  arranged  metrically  by  the  modern 
editors;  but  so  regulated  it  reads  very  harshly.  In  the  dis- 
tinction between  prose  and  verse  we  have  invariably  followed 
the  folio,  which  in  this  respect  is  most  carefully  printed. 
The  (juartos,  on  the  contrary,  not  only  C(ml'ound  the  differ- 
ences between  prose  and  verse,  but  give  us  the  verse  in  the 
most  inexact  and  capricious  manner,  presenting  every  appear- 
ance of  a  reported  text — a  copy  taken  down  as  the  dialogue 
was  spoken, — in  which  case  it  would  be  very  difficult  for  a 
reporter  to  detect  the  beginnings  and  ends  of  lines,  and  to 
mark  what  was  intended  to  be  metrical  and  what  not. 


Act  I] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  IV, 


If  thou  canst  serve  where  thou  dost  stand  con- 

demn'd, 
So  may  it  come  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st,* 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labours. 

Horns  within.     Enter  Lear,  Knights,  and 
Attendants. 

Lear.  Let  me  not  stay  a  jot  for  dinner ;  go, 
get  it  ready.  \_Exit  an  Attendant.]  How  now, 
what  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  A  man,  sir. 

Lear.  What  dost  thou  profess  ?  What  wouldst 
thou  with  us  ? 

Kent.  I  do  profess  to  be  no  less  than  I  seem  ; 
to  serve  him  truly  that  will  put  me  in  trust ;  to 
love  him  that  is  honest ;  to  converse  with  him 
that  is  wise  and  says  little  ;  to  fear  judgment ; 
to  fight  when  I  cannot  choose  ;  and  to  eat  no 
fish. 

Lear.  What  art  thou  ? 

Kent.  A  very  honest-hearted  fellow,  and  as 
poor  as  the  king. 

Lear.  If  thou  be'st  as  poor  for  a  subject  as 
he 's  for  a  king,  thou  art  poor  enough.  What 
wouldst  thou  ? 

Kent.  Service. 

Lear.  Who  wouldst  thou  serve  ? 

Kent.  You. 

Lear.  Dost  thou  know  me,  fellow? 

Kent.  No,  sir ;  but  you  have  that  in  your 
countenance  which  I  would  fain  call  master. 

Lear.  What  's  that? 

Kent.  Authority. 

Lear,  What  services  can'st  thou  do  ? 

Kent.  I  can  keep  honest  counsel,  ride,  nui, 
mar  a  curious  tale  in  telling  it,  and  deliver  a 
plain  message  bluntly  ;  that  which  ordinary  men 
are  fit  for  I  am  qualified  in  :  and  the  best  of  me 
is  diligence. 

Lear.  How  old  art  thou? 

Kent.  Not  so  young,  sir,  to  love  a  woman  for 
singing,  nor  so  old  to  dote  on  her  for  anything  : 
I  have  years  on  my  back  forty-eight. 

Lear.  Follow  me ;  thou  shalt  serve  me ;  if  I 
like  thee  no  worse  after  dinner,  I  will  not  part 
from  thee  yet. — Dinner,  hoa,  dinner. — Where  's 
my  knave  ?  my  fool  ?  Go  you,  and  call  my  fool 
hither. 

Enter  Steward. 
You,  you,  sirrah,  where  's  my  daughter  ? 

Stew.  So  please  you, —  \^Exit. 

*  This  line  is  ordinarily  printed  thus, — 
"  (So  may  it  come  !)  thy  master,  whom  thou  lov'st." 
We  follow  the  punctuation  of  the  original,  by  which  we  un- 
derstand, so  it  may  come  that  thy  master,  Sec. 

Tbaoedies. — Vol..  I.         3  G 


Lear.  What  says  the  fellow  there  ?  Call  the 
clotpoll  back. — Where  'smy  fool,  hoa  ? — I  think 
the  world  's  asleep. — How  now  ?  where 's  that 
mongrel? 

Knight.  He  says,  my  lord,  your  daughter  is 
not  well. 

Lear.  Why  came  not  the  slave  back  to  me 
when  I  called  him? 

Knight.  Sir,  he  answer'd  me  in  the  rotmdest 
manner,  he  would  not. 

Lear.  He  would  not! 

Knight.  My  lord,  I  know  not  what  the  mat- 
ter is  ;  but,  to  my  judgment,  your  highness  is  not 
entertained  with  that  ceremonious  affection  as 
you  were  wont ;  there  's  a  great  abatement  of 
kindness  appears,  as  well  in  the  general  depend- 
ants, as  in  the  duke  himself  also,  and  your 
daughter. 

Lear.  Ha !  say'st  thou  so  ? 

Knight.  I  beseech  you,  pardon  me,  my  lord, 
if  I  be  mistaken :  for  my  duty  cannot  be  silent 
when  I  think  your  highness  wronged. 

Lear.  Thou  but  rememberst  me  of  mine  own 
conception  :  I  have  perceived  a  most  faint  ne- 
glect of  late ;  which  I  have  rather  blamed  as 
mine  own  jealous  curiosity,  than  as  a  very  pre- 
tence and  purpose  of  unkindness :  I  will  look 
further  into  "t. — But  where  's  my  fool  ?  I  have 
not  seen  him  this  two  days. 

Knigld.  Shice  my  young  lady  's  going  into 
France,  sir,  the  fool  hath  much  pined  away. 

Lear.  No  more  of  that;  I  have  noted  it  well. 
— Go  you,  and  tell  my  daughter  I  would  speak 
with  her. — Go  you,  call  hither  my  fool. — 

Re-enter  Steward. 

0,  you  sir,  you,  come  you  hither,  sir  :  Who  am 

1,  sir? 

Stew.  My  lady's  father. 

Lear.  My  lady's  father!  my  lord's  knave: 
you  whoreson  dog !  you  slave  !  you  cur! 

Stew,  I  am  none  of  these,  my  lord :  I  be- 
seech yovn-  pardon. 

Lear.  Do  you  bandy  looks  with  me,  you 
rascal  ?  {^Striking  him. 

Stew.  I  '11  not  be  strucken,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Nor  tripped  neither  ;  you  base  foot- 
ball player.  \_Tripping  tip  his  heels. 

Lear.  I  thank  thee,  fellow  ;  thou  serv'st  me, 
and  I  "11  love  thee. 

Kent.  Come,  sir,  arise,  away;  I  '11  teach  you 
diff'erences;  away,  away:  If  you  will  measiu'e 
your  lubber's  length  again,  tarry  :  but  away : 
go  to ;  Have  you  wisdom  ?  so. 

[^Pitshes  the  Steward  out. 
409 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  IV. 


Lear.  Now,  my  friendly  knave,  I  tliank  thee  : 
there  's  earnest  of  thy  service. 

[  Giving  Kent  money. 

Enter  Fool. 

Fool.  Let  me  hire  him,  too ; — Here  's  my 
coxcomb.^  \_Giving  Kent  Ids  cap. 

Lear.  How  now,  my  pretty  knave?  how  dost 
tliou  ? 

Fool.  Sirrah,   you   were  best  take  my   cox- 
comb. 
Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ?  " 

Fool.  Why  ?  For  taking  one's  part  that 's  out 
of  favour  :  Nay,  an  thou  canst  not  smile  as  the 
wind  sits,  thou  'It  catch  cold  shortly :  There, 
take  my  coxcomb  :  Why,  this  fellow  has  ba- 
nish'd  two  of  his  davighters,  and  did  the  third  a 
blessing  against  his  will ;  if  thou  follow  him, 
thou  must  needs  wear  my  coxcomb. — How  now, 
nuncle  ?  'Would  I  had  two  coxcombs,  and  two 
daughters  I 

Lear.  Why,  my  boy  ? 

Fool.  If  I  gave  them  all  my  living,''  I  'd  keep 
my  coxcombs  myself:  There  's  mine;  beg  ano- 
ther of  thy  daughters. 

Lear.  Take  heed,  sirrah  ;  the  whip. 
Fool.  Truth  's  a  dog  must  to  kennel  ;  he  must 
be  whipp'd  out,  when  the  lady  brach  "^  may  stand 
by  the  fire  and  stink. 

Lear.  A  pestilent  gall  to  me  ! 

Fool.  Sirrah,  I'll  teach  thee  a  speech. 

Lear.  Do. 

Fool.  Mark  it,  nuncle  : — 

Have  more  than  thou  showest. 
Speak  less  than  thou  knowest. 
Lend  less  than  thou  owest,'^ 
Ride  more  than  thou  goest, 
Learn  more  than  thou  trowest. 
Set  less  than  thou  throwest ; 
Leave  thy  drink  and  thy  whore. 
And  keep  in-a-door. 
And  thou  shalt  have  more 
Than  two  tens  to  a  score. 
Kent.  This  is  nothing,  fool.*^ 

•  The  quarto  makes  Kent  answer,  "  Why,  fool  ?"  which  is 
the  ordinary  reading.  The  alteration  of  the  folio  to  "  why, 
my  boy  ?"  clearly  shows  that  the  speech  was  intended  lor 
Lear ;  and  tliat,  however  it  might  have  been  written  originally, 
the  poet  in  his  amended  copy  wonld  not  permit  Kent,  in  his 
character  of  serving-miin,  so  soon  to  begin  bandjing  ques- 
tions with  Lear's  favourite. 

I"  Living — estate — means  of  living. 

"  Lady  hrach — the  quartos  "  lady  oth'e  brach."  The 
modern  editors  read  "  Lady  the  brach."  They  have  adopted 
this  reading  because  Hotspur  says, — 

"  I  had  rather  hear  Lady,  my  brach,  howl  in  Irish." 
According  to   Ulount,  in  his   '  Ancient  Tenures,'  a  female 
harrier  is  a  brach. 

*  Uwest—o-wnesi. 

'  In  tlie  quartos  this  speech  is  given  to  Lear;  butitappears 

410 


Fool.  Then  'tis  like  the  breath  of  an  unfee'd 
lawyer ;  you  gave  me  nothing  for  't :  Can  you 
make  no  use  of  nothing,  mmcle? 

Lear.  Why,  no,  boy  ;  nothing  can  be  made 
out  of  nothing. 

Fool.  Prithee  tell  him,  so  much  the  rent  of 
his  land  comes  to  ;  he  will  not  believe  a  fool. 

\_To  Kent. 
Lear.  A  bitter  fool ! 

Fool.  Dost  thou  know  the  diiference,  my  boy, 
between  a  bitter  fool,  and  a  sweet  one  ? 
Lear.  No,  lad  ;  teach  me. 
Fool.  [That  lord  that  counsell'd  thee  to  give 
away  thy  land. 
Come  place  him   here  by  me,  do  thou  for  him 

stand  : 
The  sweet  and  bitter  fool  will  presently  appear; 
The  one  in  motley  here — the  other  found  out 
there. 
Lear.  Dost  thou  call  me  fool,  boy  ? 
Fool.  All  thy  other  titles    thou  hast  given 
away ;  that  thou  wast  born  with. 

Kent.  This  is  not  altogether  fool,  my  lord. 
Fool.  No,  'faith,  lords  and  great  men  will  not 
let  me;  if  I  had  a  monopoly  out,  they  would 
have  part  on't  :^  and  ladies  too,  they  will  not  let 
me  have  all  fool  to  myself;  they  '11  be  snatch- 
ing.— ']  Nuncle,  give  me  an  egg,  and  I'll  give 
thee  two  crowns. 

Lear.  What  two  crowns  shall  they  be? 
Fool.  Why,  after  I  have  cut  the  egg  i'  the 
middle,  and  eat  up  the  meat,  the  two  crowns  of 
the  egg.  When  thou  clovest  thy  crown  i'  the 
middle,  and  gavest  away  both  parts,  thou  borest 
thine  ass  on  thy  back  o'er  the  dirt :  Thou  had'st 
little  wit  in  thy  bald  crown,  when  thou  gav'st 
thy  golden  one  away.  If  I  speak  like  myself  in 
this,  let  him  be  whipp'd  that  first  finds  it  so. 

'  Fools  had  ne'er  less  grace  in  a  year  ;  [Singing. 

For  wise  men  are  grown  foppish  ; 
And  know  nut  how  their  wits  to  wear, 
Their  manners  are  so  apish.' 

Lear.  When  were  you  wont  to  be  so  full  of 
songs,  sirrah  ? 

Fool.  I  have  used  it,  nuncle,  e'er  since  thou 
madest  thy  daughters  thy  mothers ; ''  for  when 
thou  gav'st  them  the  rod,  and  put'st  down  thine 
own  breeches, 

'  Then  they  for  sudden  joy  did  weep,  [Singing. 

And  I  for  sorrow  sung. 
That  such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep. 
And  go  the  fool  among.' 

to  us  that  the  folio  with  great  propriety  assigns  it  to  Kent,  in 
reply  to  the  fool's  address  to  him,  "  Sirrah,  I'll  teach  thee  a 
speicli." 

"  'I'lie  passages  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 

'■  Thy  mothers — the  quartos,  thy  mother. 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCKNK    IV. 


Prithee,  nuiicle,  keep  a  scluiolniaster  that  can 
teach  thy  fool  to  lie ;   I  would  fain  learn  to  lie. 

Lear.  An  you  lie,  sirrah,  we  '11  have  you 
whipp'd. 

Fool.  I  marvel  what  kin  thou  and  thy  daugh- 
ters are  :  they  '11  have  me  whipp'd  for  speaking 
true,  thou  'It  have  me  whipp'd  for  lying ;  and 
sometimes  I  am  whipp'd  for  holding  my  peace. 
I  had  rather  be  any  kind  of  thing  than  a  fool : 
and  yet  I  would  not  be  thee,  nuncle ;  thou  hast 
pared  thy  wit  o'  both  sides,  and  left  nothing  in 
the  middle :  Here  comes  one  o'  the  parings. 

Enter  Goneril. 

Lear.  How  now,  daughter?  what  makes  that 
frontlet  on?  Methinks,  you  are  too  much  of 
late  i'  the  frown. 

Fool.  Thou  wast  a  pretty  fellow  when  thou 
hadst  no  need  to  care  for  her  frowning  ;  now 
thou  art  an  O  without  a  figure  :  I  am  better 
than  thou  art  now  :  I  am  a  fool,  thou  art  no- 
thing.— Yes,  forsooth,  I  will  hold  my  tongue ; 
so  your  face  [to  Gon.]  bids  me,  though  you  say 
nothing.     Mum,  mum. 

He  that  keeps  nor  crust  nor  crum. 
Weary  of  all,  sliall  want  some. — 
That 's  a  sheal'd  peascod.        [Pointing  to  Lear. 
Gon.  Not  only,  sir,  this  your  all-licens'd  fool. 
But  other  of  your  insolent  retinue 
Do  hourly  cai-p  and  quarrel ;  breaking  forth 
In  rank  and  not-to-be-endured  riots.     Sir, 
I  had  thought,  by  making  this  well  known  unto 

you. 
To  have  fomid  a  safe  redress;  but  now  grow 

fearful. 
By  what  yourself  too  late  have  spoke  and  done, 
That  you  protect  this  course,  and  put  it  on 
By  your  allowance ;  which,  if  you  should,  the 

fault 
Would  not  'scape  censure,   nor   the   redresses 

sleep ; 
Which,  in  the  tender  of  a  wholesome  weal, 
Might  in  their  working  do  you  that  offence, 
Which  else  were  shame,  that  then  necessity 
Will  call  discreet  proceeding. 
Fool.  For  you  know,  nuncle. 

The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long. 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young. 
So,  out  went  the  candle,  and  we  were  left  dark- 
ling.* 


•  Sir  Joshua  Keynolfls,  in  n.  note  upon  this  line,  says  that 
Shakspere's  fools  weie  copies  of  originals,  who  ' '  had  a  custom 
of  taking  off  the  edge  of  too  sharp  a  speech  by  covering  it 
hastily  with  the  end  of  an  old  song  or  any  glib  nonsense  that 
came  into  the  mind,"  He  adds,"  1  know  no  other  way  of 
accounting  for  the  incoherent  words  with  which  Shakspere 


Lear.  Are  you  our  daughter  ? 

Gon.  I  would  you  would  make  use  of  your 
good  wisdom 
Whereof  I  know  you  are  fraught ;  and  put  away 
These  dispositions,  which  of  late  transport  you 
From  what  you  rightly  are.' 

Fool.  May  not  an  ass  know  when  the  cart 
draws  the  horse? — Whoop,  Jug  !   I  love  thee. 

Lear.  Does  any  here  know  me?     This  is  not 
Lear : 
Does  Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus?    Where  are 

his  eyes  ? 
Either  his  notion  weakens,  his  discernings 
Are  lethargied.     Ha!  waking?  't  is  not  so. 
Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am? — '' 

Fool.  Lear's  shadow. — 

[Lear.  I  would  learn  that ;  for  by  the  marks 
of  sovereignty,  knowledge,  and  reason,  I  should 
be  false  persuaded  I  had  daughters  — 

Fool.  Which  they  will  make  an  obedient 
father.] 

Lear.  Your  name,  fair  gentlewoman  ? 

Gon.  This  admiration,  sir,  is   much   o'   the 
savour 
Of  other  your  new  pranks.     I  do  beseech  you 
To  understand  my  purposes  aright : 
As  you  are  old  and  reverend,  should  be  wise  : 
Here    do    you   keep  a   hundred   knights  and 

squires ; 
Men  so  disorder'd,  so  debosh'd  and  bold. 
That  this  our  court,  infected  with  their  manners. 
Shows  like  a  riotous  inn  :  epicurism  and  lust 
Make  it  more  like  a  tavern  or  a  brothel. 
Than  a  grac'd  palace.     The  shame  itself  doth 
speak 

often  finishes  this  Fool's  speeches."  But  the  words  before  us 
are  not  incoherent  words.  The  ex|)ression  "  so  out  went  the 
c.mdle,"  &c.,  may  iiave  been  proverbial  to  signify  the  deser- 
tion of  a  man  by  his  mercenary  friends,  when  he  is  become  a 
"  sheal'd  peascod."  But  Shakspere  found  the  almost  iden- 
tical ima^e  applied  to  the  stt)ry  of  Lear,  as  related  by 
Spenser:   (See  Introductory  Notice.) 

"  But  true  it  is,  tliat,  when  the  oil  is  spent. 

The  light  gnes  out  and  wick  is  throw  away ; 

So  when  he  had  resign'd  his  regiment 

His  daughter  'gan  despise  his  drooping  day." 
•  Tliis   speech   is   ordinarily  printed   in  prose,  as  in  the 
quartos.     In  them  it  begins  with  "  Came,  sir;"  wliich  being 
rejected,  it  is  rendered  strictly  metrical,  as  iu  the  folio. 

^  This  speech  is  again  generally  printed  as  prose,  after  the 
quartos.  Several  words  have  been  rejected  iu  tlie  folio  to 
render  it  metrical ;  and  a  more  important  change  is  thai 
alter  Lear's  question — 

"  Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am  ?" 
The  Fool  answers — "  Lear's  shadow."  This  most  emphatic 
passage  is  destroyed  in  the  quartos,  and  in  the  modern 
editions,  by  Lear  replying  to  his  own  question.  The  passage 
in  brackets  which  follows  is  not  found  in  the  folio.  We 
point  Lear's  speech  in  that  passage  according  to  Tyrwhitt's 
suggestion.  Lear  is  continuing  to  speak,  without  reference 
to  the  Fool's  interposition ;  and  tlie  Fool  in  the  same  way 
continues  the  thread  of  his  comment. — 

"  TVhich  they  will  make  an  obedient  father  " 
refers  to  shadow. 

411 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  IV. 


For  instant  remedy  :  Be  then  desir'd 

By  her  that  else  will  take  the  thing  she  begs, 

A  little  to  disquantity  your  train  ; 

And  the  remainder,  that  shall  still  depend, 

To  be  such  men  as  may  besort  your  age, 

Which  know  themselves  and  you. 

Lear.  Darkness  and  devils ! — 

Saddle  my  horses  ;  call  my  train  together. — 
Degenerate  bastard!  I'll  not  trouble  thee  ; 
Yet  have  I  left  a  daughter. 

Gon.  You  stiike  my  people  ;  and  your  dis- 
order'd  rabble 
Make  servants  of  their  betters. 

Enter  Albany. 

Lear.  Woe,  that  too  late  repents, — [O,  sir, 
are  you  come  ?  ^] 
Is  it  your  will  1  [^To  Alb.]  Speak,  sir.  —  Prepare 

my  horses. 
Ingratitude  !  thou  marble-hearted  fiend, 
More  hideous,  when  thou  show'st  thee   in   a 

child, 
Than  the  sea-monster  ! 

Alb.  Pray,  sir,  be  patient. 

Lear.  Detested  kite  !  thouliest:       [/"o  Gon. 
My  train  are  men  of  choice  and  rarest  parts, 
That  all  particulars  of  duty  know  : 
And  in  the  most  exact  regard  support 
The  worships  of  their  name. — O  most  small  fault. 
How  ugly  didst  thou  in  Cordelia  show  ! 
Which,  like  an   engine,  wrench'd  my  frame  of 

nature 
From  the  fix'd  place  ;  drew  from  my  heart  all 

love, 
And  added  to  the  gall.     O  Lear,  Lear,  Lear ! 
Beat  at  this  gate,  that  let  thy  folly  in, 

^Striking  his  head. 
And  thy  dear  judgment  out ! — Go,  go  my  people. 

Alb.  My  lord,  I  am  guiltless,  as  I  am  ignorant 
Of  what  hath  mov'd  you. 

Lear.  It  may  be  so,  my  lord, — 
Hear,  nature,  hear  ;  dear  goddess,  hear  ! 
Suspend  thy  purpose,  if  thou  didst  intend 
To  make  this  creature  fruitful ! '' 
Into  her  Avomb  convey  sterility  ! 
Dry  up  in  her  the  organs  of  increase  ; 
And  from  her  derogate  body  never  spring 
A  babe  to  honour  her  !     If  she  must  teem, 

"  The  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 
••  We  print  these  four  lines  according  to  the  metrical  ar- 
rangement of  the  folio.  In  the  quartos  they  are  given  as 
jirose.  We  cannot  conceive  of  anything  more  destructive  to 
the  terrific  beauty  of  the  passage  tlian  tlie  "  regulation  "  by 
which  it  is  distorted  into  the  following  lines,  the  text  of 
every  modern  edition  : — 

"  It  may  be  so,  my  lord, — Hear,  nature,  hear; 
Dear  goddess,  liearl  Suspend  thy  purpose,  if 
Thou  didst  intend  to  make  this  creature  fruitful !" 

412 


Create  her  child  of  spleen  ;  that  it  may  live. 
And  be  a  thwart  disnatur'd  tonnent  to  her  ! 
Let  it  stamp  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  youth  ; 
With  cadent  tears  fret  channels  in  her  cheeks ; 
Turn  all  her  mother's  pains,  and  benefits, 
To  laughter  and  contempt ;  that  she  may  feel 
How  sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is 
To  have  a  thankless  child. — Away,  away  ! 

\_Exit, 

Alb.  Now,  gods,  that  we  adore,  whereof  comes 
this  ? 

Go}i.  Never    afflict  yom*self  to  know  more 
of  it;=' 
But  let  his  disposition  have  that  scope 
As  dotage  gives  it. 

Re-enter  Lear. 

Lear,  What,  fifty  of  my  followers  at  a  clap! 
Within  a  fortnight  ? 

Alb,  What's  the  matter,  sir? 

Lear.  I  '11  tell  thee  ; — Life  and  death  !   I  am 
ash  am 'd 
That  thou  hast  power  to  shake  my  manhood 
thus:  [To  GoNERiL. 

That  these  hot  tears,  which  break  from  me  per- 
force. 
Should  make  thee  worth  them. — Blasts  and  fogs 

upon  thee ! 
The  untented  woundings  of  a  father's  ciu'se 
Pierce  every  sense  about  thee  ! — Old  fond  eyes, 
Beweep  this  cause  again  I'll  pluck  ye  out; 
And  cast  you,  with  the  waters  that  you  lose, 
To  temper  clay. — Ha!  Let  it  be  so  : — 
I  have  another  daughter, '' 
Who,  I  am  sure,  is  kind  and  comfortable ; 
When  she  shall  hear  this  of  thee,  with  her  nails 
She  '11  flay  thy  wolfish  visage.     Thou  shalt  find. 
That   I  '11   resume  the  shape  which   thou  dost 

think 
I  have  cast  off"  for  ever.' 

[^Exeunt  Lear,  Kent,  and  Attendants. 
Gon.  Do  you  mark  that  ? 
Alb.  I  cannot  be  so  partial,  Goneril, 
To  the  great  love  I  bear  you, — 

Gon.  Pray  you  content. — What,  Oswald,  ho  ! 
You,  sir,  more  knave  than  fool,  after  your  mas- 
ter. [7^0  the  Fool. 

*  More  (if  it — in  the  quartos,  the  cause 

•>  We  print  this  passage  as  in  the  folio.     It  is  ordinarily 
given — 

"  Ha  1  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Let  it  be  so ;  yet  have  I  left  a  daughter." 
Tlie  passage  in  the  quartos  stands  thus — ["  Yea,  is  it  come  to 
this?  yet  have  I  lelt  a  daughter."]  Johnson  states,  "the 
reading  is  here  gleaned  up,  part  from  the  lirst,  part  Irom  the 
second  edition" — a  mode  of  editing  wliich  appears  to  us 
little  better  than  chihiish. 

"  In  the  quartos.  Thou  shnlt,  I  warrant  thee,  follows. 


Act  I.] 


KING  LEAR. 


fScKNK    V. 


Fool.  Niuicle  Lear,  miiicle  Lear,  tarry  ;  take 
the  fool  with  thee. 

A  fox  when  one  has  caught  her. 
And  such  a  daughter. 
Should  sure  to  the  slaughter. 
If  my  cap  would  buy  a  halter ; 
So  the  fool  follows  after,  \_Exit. 

Gon,  This  man  hath  had  good  counsel : — A 
hundred  knights ! 
'Tis  politic,  and  safe,  to  let  him  keep 
At  point  a  hundred  knights !  Yes,  that  on  every 

dream, 
Each  buz,  each  fancy,  each  complaint,  dislike, 
He  may  enguard  his  dotage  with  their  powers, 
And  hold  our  lives  in  mercy. — Oswald,  I  say  I — 
Alb.  Well,  you  may  fear  too  far. 
Gon.  Safer  than  trust  too  far." 
Let  me  still  take  away  the  harms  I  fear, 
Not  fear  still  to  be  taken.     I  know  his  heart  : 
What  he  hath  utter'd  1  have  writ  my  sister ; 
If  she  sustain  him  and  his  hundred  knights, 

When  I  have  show'd  the  unfitness How  now, 

Oswald  ? 

Enter  Steward. 

What,  have  you  writ  that  letter  to  my  sister  ? 
Steiv.  Ay,  madam. 

Gon.  Take  you  some  company,  and  away  to 
horse  : 
Inform  her  full  of  my  particular  fear ; 
And  thereto  add  such  reasons  of  your  own. 
As  may  compact  it  more.     Get  you  gone ; 
And  hasten  your  return.     [^Exit.  Stew.]     No, 

no,  my  lord. 
This  milky  gentleness,  and  course  of  yours, 
Though  I  condemn  it  not,  yet,  imder  pardon, 
You  are  much  more  attask'd  for  want  of  wis- 
dom, 
Than  prais'd  for  harmful  mildness. 

Alb,  How  far  your  eyes  may  pierce  I  cannot 
tell; 
Striving  to  better,  oft  we  mar  what 's  well. 
Gon.  Nay,  then, — 
Alb.  Well,  well ;  the  event.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  V. — Court  before  the  same. 

Eiiter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Go  you  before  to  Gloster  with  these 
letters  :  acquaint  my  daughter  no  further  with 
anything  you  know,  than  comes  from  her  de- 
mand out  of  the  letter  :  If  your  diligence  be 
not  speedy,  I  shall  be  there  afore  you. 

*  Tuufar — Steevens  rejects  these  words,  ;iftcr  his  tasteless 
fasluon  of  emendation . 


Kent.  I  will  not  sleep,  my  lord,  till  I  have 
delivered  your  letter.  [jExiV. 

Fool.  If  a  man's  brains  were  in  his  heels, 
were  't  not  in  danger  of  kibes  ? 

Lear.  Ay,  boy. 

Fool.  Then,  I  prithee,  be  merry ;  thy  wit 
shall  not  go  slip-shod. 

Lear.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 

Fool.  Shalt  see  thy  other  daughter  will  use 
thee  kindly  ;  for  though  she  's  as  like  this  as  a 
crab  's  like  an  apple,  yet  I  can  tell  what  I  can 
tell. 

Lear.  What  can'st  tell,  boy  ? 

Fool.  She  will  taste  as  like  this  as  a  crab 
does  to  a  crab.  Thou  canst  tell  why  one's  nose 
stands  i'  the  middle  of  one's  face  ? 

Jjear.  No. 

Fool.  Why,  to  keep  one's  eyes  of  either  side 
one's  nose ;  that  what  a  man  cannot  smell  out 
he  may  spy  into. 

Lear.  I  did  her  wrong : — 

Fool.  Can'st  tell  how  an  oyster  makes  his  shell  ? 

Lear.  No. 

Fool.  Nor  I  neither;  but  I  can  tell  why  a 
snail  has  a  house. 

Lear.  Why? 

Fool.  Why  to  put  his  head  in  ;  not  to  give  it 
away  to  his  daughters,  and  leave  his  horns  with- 
out a  case. 

Lear.  I  will  forget  my  nature. — So  kind  a 
father ! — Be  my  horses  ready  ? 

Fool.  Thy  asses  are  gone  about  'em.  The 
reason  why  the  seven  stars  are  no  more  than 
seven  is  a  pretty  reason. 

Lear.  Because  they  are  not  eight? 

Fool.  Yes,  indeed:  Thou  wouldst  make  a 
good  fool. 

Lear.  To  take  it  again  perforce ! — Monster 
ingratitude ! 

Fool.  If  thou  wert  my  fool,  nuncle,  I'd  have 
thee  beaten  for  being  old  before  thy  time. 

Lear.  How 's  that? 

Fool.  Thou  should'st  not  have  been  old  till 
thou  hadst  been  wise. 

Lear.  O  let  me  not  be  mad,  not  mad,  sweet 
heaven  ! 
Keep  me  in  temper  ;  I  would  not  be  mad  ! 

Enter  Gentleman. 
How  now  !  are  the  horses  ready  ? 

Ge7it.  Ready,  my  lord. 

Lear.  Come,  boy. 

Fool.  She  that's  a  maid  now,  and  laughs  at 
my  departure. 
Shall  not  be  a  maid  long,  unless  things  be  cut 
shorter.  [Exeu/tf. 

413 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


'  Scene  II. — "  0,  theae  eclipses  do  portend  these 
divisions  !  fa^  s  i/,  /a,  mi." 

Dr.  Burney,  the  historian  of  music,  has  a  note 
upon  this  passage,  which  is  certainly  ingenious : — 
"  The  commentators  not  being  musicians,  have 
regarded  this  passage  perhaps  as  unintelligible  non- 
sense, and  therefore  left  it  as  they  found  it,  without 
bestowing  a  single  conjecture  on  its  meaning  and 
import.  Shakspeare,  however,  shows  by  the  context 
that  he  was  well  acquainted  with  the  property  of 
these  syllables  in  solmisation,  which  imply  a  series 
of  sounds  so  unnatural,  that  ancient  musicians 
prohibited  tlieir  fise.  The  monkish  writers  on  music 
say,  mi  contra  fa  est  diabolus :  the  interval  fa  mi, 
including  a  tritonus,  or  sharp  4th,  consisting  of 
three  tones  without  the  intervention  of  a  semi- 
tone, expressed  in  the  modern  scale  by  the  letters 
F,  G,  A,  B,  would  form  a  musical  phrase  extremely 
disagreeable  to  the  ear.  Edmund,  speaking  of 
eclipses  as  portents  and  prodigies,  compares  the 
dislocation  of  events,  the  fmies  being  out  of  joint,  to 
the  unnatural  and  offensive  sounds, /«,  sol,  la,  mi." 


_o 


€3- 


o 


-C3—  ^  — 


We  cannot  avoid  expressing  an  opinion  that  Dr. 
Burney  has  somewhat  overstated  this  matter.  It 
is  not,  we  think,  that  Edmund  compares  the  dislo- 
cation of  events  to  the  unnatural  and  offensive 
sounds,  fa,  sol,  la,  mi,  but  that  in  his  affectation  of 
humming  the  gamut  as  Edgar  enters,  he  employs 
unnatural  and  offensive  sounds.  The  poet,  we 
readily  believe,  had  a  purpose  in  this ;  but  we  do 
not  quite  see  that  the  discordant  arrangement  of 
the  gamut  has  any  reference  to  the  words  which 
Edmund  has  just  uttered,  in  the  way  of  comparison. 
He  pretends  to  be  thinking  aloud,  and  the  simu- 
lated thoughts  which  he  expresses  are  connected 
with  ideas  of  what  is  unnatural  and  dissonant.  In 
the  same  way  the  musical  notes  which  he  utters  are 
also  unnatural  and  dissonant.  Tliey  are  a  pre- 
tended accompaniment  to  his  thoughts,  but  they 
are  not  an  interpretation  of  them. 

^  Scene  IV. —         "  Here  's  my  cojrcomb.'' 

The  Fool  of  Lear,  with  reference  to  the  purposes 
of  the   drama,  has    been  thus  described  by  Cole- 
414 


ridge : — "  The  Fool  is  no  comic  buffoon  to  make 
the  groundlings  laugh, — no  forced  condescension  of 
Shakspere's  genius  to  the  taste  of  his  audience. 
Accordingly,  tlie  poet  prepares  for  his  introduction, 
whicli  he  never  does  witli  any  of  his  common  clowns 
and  fools,  by  bringing  him  into  living  connexion 
with  the  pathos  of  tlie  play.  He  is  as  wonderful  a 
creation  as  Caliban."  But  the  prominent  part 
whicli  the  Fool  takes  in  tiiemost  passionate  scenes 
of  Lear — "his  wild  bal)blings  and  inspired  idiocy" 
— were  not  in  the  sligiitest  degree  opposed  to  the 
knowledge  of  Shakspere's  audience.  The  domes- 
tic fools  with  which  tliey  were  familiar,  were,  for  the 
most  part,  like  tlie  fool  which  Sir  Thomas  More 
describes  in  his  'Utopia:'  "He  so  studied  with 
words  and  sayings,  brought  forth  so  out  of  time  and 
place,  to  make  sport  and  more  laughter,  that  lie 
himself  was  oftener  laughed  at  than  his  jests  were. 
Yet  the  foolish  fellow  brought  out  now  and  then 
such  indifferent  and  reasonable  stuff,  that  he  made 
the  proverb  true  which  saith,  '  He  that  shooteth  oft 
at  the  last  shall  hit  the  mark.'  "  But  it  must  not 
be  imagined  that  such  fools  as  those  who  were  ad- 
mitted to  familiarity  with  the  irascible  Henry  VIII., 
the  haughty  Wolsey,  and  the  philosophic  and 
Ifarned  More,  were  vulgar  and  licentious  jesters, 
or  incapable  of  affection  and  dislike-  They  were 
grateful,  no  doulit,  to  those  who  treated  them  with 
kindness, — they  were  bitter  and  revengeful,  "all 
licensed"  as  they  were,  to  those  who  repulsed  and 
teazed  them.  Antony  Staff'ord,  in  his  '  Guide  of 
H onour,' says,  he  "had  known  a  great  and  com- 
petently wise  man,  who  would  much  respect  any 
man  who  was  good  to  his  fool."  When  Sir  Thomas 
More  resigned  the  Chancellorship,  he  gave  his  fool, 
Patlison,  to  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  "  upon 
this  condition,  that  he  should  every  year  wait  upon 
him  that  should  have  that  office."  It  is  difficult  to 
believe  that  poor  Pattison,  transferred  year  after 
year  to  a  new  master,  was  as  happy  with  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  London  as  with  the  heavenly-tempered 
Chancellor,  who,  speaking  of  fools  in  general,  says, 
"  It  is  a  great  reproach  to  do  any  of  them  hurt  or 
injury."*  Who  knows  but  Pattison  would  have 
clung  to  his  master  in  his  misfortunes,  like  the  Fool 
of  Lear, — 

"  wlio  labours  to  outjfst 

His  lieart-striick  injuries." 

*  '  Utopia,'  Book  ii.,  ch.  viii. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  I. 


When  Wolsey  was  disgraced,  he  cherished  his  fool, 
Patch,  as  one  of  the  few  comforts  that  were  left  to 
him  ;  and  at  last  sent  him  to  his  capricious  master 
as  the  most  valuable  present  he  could  bestow.  We 
can  easily  imagine  that,  in  the  separation,  Wolsey's 
fool  "much  piu'd  away,"  as  Lear's  did  "since  my 
young  lady's  going  into  France."  Will  Sommers, 
Henry  VIII.'s  jester,  on  the  other  hand,  according 
to  tradition,  hated  Cardinal  Wolsey.  He  was  tlie 
"sweet  and  bitter  fool."  There  is  a  very  curious 
story  in  a  tract  entitled  'The  Nest  of  Ninnies,'  by 
Robert  Arniin  (1608),  which  exhil)its  not  only  the 
licence  of  the  domestic  fools,  but  tlieir  indifference 
to  the  consequences  of  their  freedoms.  It  was  in 
a  later  period  that  Laud  revenged  himself  on 
Archee  Armstrong.  We  copy  the  story  from  the 
'  Nest  of  Ninnies,'  without  abridgment : — 

"  On  a  time  appointed,  the  king  (Henry  the 
Eighth)  dined  at  Windsor,  in  the  chapel-yard,  at 
Cardinal  Wolsey's,  at  the  time  when  he  was  build- 
ing that  admirable  work  of  his  tomb;  at  whose  gate 
stood  a  number  of  poor  people  to  be  served  of 
alms  when  dinner  was  done  within:  and  as  Will 
Sommers  (the  jester)  passed  by,  they  saluted  him  ; 
taking  him  for  a  worthy  personage,  which  pleased 
him.  In  he  comes:  and,  finding  the  king  at  dinner, 
and  the  cardinal  by,  attending ;  to  disgrace  him 
that  he  never  loved — '  Harry  (says  he),  lend  me 
ten  pound.'  'What  to  do?'  says  the  king.  'To 
pay  three  or  four  of  the  cardinal's  creditors  (quoth 
he),  to  whom  my  word  is  passed,  and  they  are  come 
now  for  the  money.'  '  That  thou  shalt.  Will,' 
quoth  he.  '  Creditors  of  mine  !'  (says  the  cardinal) 
I'll  give  your  grace  my  head,  if  any  man  can  justly 
ask  me  a  penny.'  '  No!  (says  Will)  lend  me  ten 
pouiKls:  if  I  pay  it  not  where  thou  owest  it,  I'll 
give  thee  twenty  for  it.'  '  Do  so,'  saj's  the  king. 
'  That  I  will,  my  liege  (says  the  cardinal),  though 
I  know  I  owe  none.' — With  that  he  lends  Will  ten 


pounds.  Will  goes  to  the  gate,  and  distributes  it  to 
the  poor,  and  brought  the  empty  bag.  '  Tiiere  is 
thy  bag  again  (says  he),  thy  creditors  are  satisfied, 
and  my  word  out  of  danger.'  '  Wlio  received  it 
(says  the  king),  the  brewer  or  the  baker?'  '  Neither, 
Harry  (says  Will  Sommers)  ;  but,  cardinal, answer 
me  one  thing: — to  whom  dost  thou  owe  thy  soul?' 
'  To  God!'  quoth  he.  '  To  whom,  thy  wealth?' 
<  To  the  poor,'  says  he.  '  Take  thy  forfeit,  Harry 
(says  the  fool)  ;  open  confession,  open  penance. 
His  head  is  thine ;  for  to  the  poor  at  the  gate  I  paid 
his  debt,  which  he  yields  is  due :  or,  if  thy  stony 
heart  will  not  j'ield  it  so,  save  thy  head  by  denying 
thy  word,  and  lend  it  me.  Thou  knowest  I  am 
poor,  and  have  neither  wealth  nor  wit;  and  what 
(hou  lendest  to  the  poor,  God  will  pay  thee  tenfold. 
He  is  my  surety,  arrest  him  ;  for,  by  my  troth,  hang 
me  when  I  pay  thee.'  The  king  laughed  at  the 
jest,  and  so  did  the  cardinal,  for  a  show  :  but  it 
grieved  him  to  jest  away  ten  pound  so.  Yet  worse 
tricks  than  this  Will  Sommers  served  him  after: 
for,  indeed,  he  could  never  abide  him;  and  the  for- 
feiture of  his  head  had  like  to  have  been  paid,  had 
he  not  poisoned  himself." 

The  action  of  Lear's  fool  in  offering  the  king  his 
coxcomb  appears,  if  we  may  rely  upon  a  story  in 
Perrinchief 's  '  Life  and  Death  of  King  Charles  I.,' 
to  have  furnished  an  example  to  Archee  Arm- 
strong:— "  He  told  the  king,  (James  the  First,)  he 
came  to  change  caps  with  him.  '  Why  ?  '  said  the 
king.  '  Because  (replied  Archee)  thou  hast  sent 
the  prince  into  Spain,  from  whence  he  is  never  like 
to  return.'  '  But,'  said  the  king, '  what  wilt  thou  say 
if  thou  seest  him  come  back  again  ?'  '  Marry,'  says 
the  jester,  '  I  will  take  oft'  the  fool's  cap,  which  I  set 
on  thy  head  for  sending  him  thither,  and  set  it  upon 
the    king   of  Spain's   for   letting  him  come  home 


[Henry  VIII.  and  Will  Snmmprs  ] 


415 


KING  LEAR. 


We  shall  have  occasion  to  revert  more  generally  to 
the  subject  of  Shakspere's  fools,  particularly  in 
connexion  with  their  stage  office,  in  some  drama 
which  will  afford  us  more  space,  such  as  Twelfth 
Night,  or,  As  You  Like  It.  In  tlie  mean  time  we 
copy  from  Douce  tliat  part  of  his  description  of 
their  costume  which  relates  to  the  coxcomb  :  "  A 
hood  resembling  a  monk's  cowl,  which,  at  a  very 
early  period,  it  was  certainly  designed  to  imitate, 
covered  the  head  entirely,  and  fell  down  over  part 


of  the  breast  and  shoulders.  It  was  sometimes 
decorated  with  ass's  ears,  or  else  terminated  in  the 
neck  and  head  of  a  cock,  a  fashion  as  old  as  the 
fourteenth  century.  It  often  had  the  comb  or  crest 
only  of  the  animal,  whence  the  term  cockscomb  or 
coxcomb  was  afterwards  used  to  denote  any  silly 
upstart The  hood  was  not  always  sur- 
mounted with  the  cock's  comb,  in  lieu  of  which  a 
single  bell,  and  occasionally  more,  appeared.  Some- 
times a  feather  was  added  to  the  comb." 


^  Scene  IV. — If  I  had  a  monopoly  out,  they  would 
have  part  on  '/. 

This  satire  upon  "  lords  and  great  men"  was  a 
bold  thing  in  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. In  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  almost  every  article 
of  necessity — iron,  skins,  leather,  wool,  yarn,  coal, 
beer,  glass,  paper,  saltpetre,  potash — was  consigned 
by  the  prerogative  of  the  crown  to  the  monopoly  of 
some  patentee.  Mr.  Hackwell,  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  expressed  his  surprise  that 
bread  was  not  of  the  number.  By  the  21st  of  James 
the    First   this  most    injurious   prerogative  of  the 


crown  was  got  rid  of,  and  all  commissions  and 
letters  patent  for  the  sole  buying,  selling,  making, 
working,  or  using  of  anything  are  declared  con- 
trary to  the  laws  of  the  realm.  Patents  for  new  in- 
ventions to  be  granted  for  a  limited  time  were 
excepted  by  this  statute.  It  is  curious  that  this 
passage  of  the  text  is  not  found  in  the  folio  edition 
of  1623,  at  which  time  the  struggle  for  the  abolition 
of  monopolies,  and  the  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
monopolists,  were  no  doubt  carried  to  extremes  that 
would  have  renderedsuch  a  direct  allusion  offensive 
to  the  court,  which  bad  an  interest  in  supporting 
the  corruption. 


41G 


['  I  heard  myself  proclaimed.'] 


ACT  11. 


SCENE  I.— A  Court  within  the  Castle  of  the 
Earl  of  Gloster. 

Enter  Edmund  and  Curan,  meeting. 

Edm.  Save  thee,  Curan. 

Cur.  And  you,  sir.  I  have  been  with  your 
father;  and  given  him  notice  that  the  duke  of 
Cornwall,  and  Regan  his  duchess,  will  be  here 
with  him  this  night. 

Edm.  How  comes  that  ? 

Cur.  Nay,  I  know  not :  You  have  heard  of 
the  news  abroad  ;  I  mean,  the  whispered  ones, 
for  they  are  yet  but  ear-kissing  arguments  ? 

Edm.  Not  I.     'Pray  you,  what  are  they? 

Cur.  Have  you  heard  of  no  likely  wars  to- 
ward, 'twixt  the  dukes  of  Cornwall  and  Albany? 

Edm.  Not  a  word. 

Cur.  You  may  do  then,  in  time.  Fare  you 
well,  sir.  {^Exit. 

Edm.  The  duke  be  here  to-night !     The  bet- 
ter, best! 
This  weaves  itself  perforce  into  my  business  I 
My  father  hath  set  guard  to  take  my  brother  ; 

Traoediks. — Vol..  I.         3H 


And  I  have  one  thing,  of  a  queazy '  question, 
Which    I    must   act : — Briefness,   and   fortune, 

work  ! — 
Brother,  a  word; — descend  : — Brother,  I  say  ; 

Enter  Edgar. 

My  father  watches  : — O  sir,  fly  this  place  ; 

Intelligence  is  given  where  you  are  hid  ; 

You   have    now   the    good    advantage   of    the 
night : — 

Have  you  not  spoken  'gainst  tlie  duke  of  Corn- 
wall ? 

He  's  coming   hither ;    now,  i'  the  night,  i'  the 
haste, 

And  Regan  with  him  :  Have  you  nothing  said 

Upon  his  party  'gainst  the  duke  of  Albany  ? 

Advise  yourself. 

Edg.  I  am  sure  on't,  not  a  word. 

Edm.  I    hear    my  father    coming, — Pardon 
me  : — 

In  cunning,  I  must  draw  my  sword  upon  you : — 

"  Qtzeazr/ — tliis  is  explained  as  delicate,  uncertain.  Tirlilish 
perhaps  gives  the  meaning  more  clearly. 

417 


Act  no 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  1. 


Draw :  Seem  to  defend  yourself :  Now  quit  you 
well. 

Yield:    come  before  my   father; — Light,  hoa, 
here  ! — 

Fly,   brother; — Torches!  torches! — So,   fare- 
well.—  [^Exit  Edgar. 

Some  blood  drawn  on  me  would  beget  opinion 
[  Wounds  his  arm. 

Of  my  more   fierce   endeavour:    I  have   seen 
drunkards 

Do  more  than  this  in  sport. — Father  !  father ! 

Stop,  stop  !  No  help  ? 

Enter  Gloster  and  Servants  with  torches. 
Glo.  Now,  Edmund,  where  's  the  villain  ? 
Edm.  Here  stood  he  in  the  dark,  his  sharp 
sword  out. 
Mumbling   of  wicked    charms,    conjuring    the 

moon 
To  stand  his  auspicious  mistress  : — 

Glo.  But  where  is  he  ? 

Edm.  Look,  sir,  I  bleed. 
Glo.  Where  is  the  villain,  Edmund  ? 

Edm.  Fled  this  way,  sir.  "When  by  no  means 

he  could — 
Glo.  Pursue  him,   hoa! — Go   after. —  \_Exit 

Serv.] — By  no  means, — what? 
Edm.  Persuade  me  to  the  murder  of  your 
lordship ; 
But  that  I  told  him,  the  revenging  gods 
'Gainst  parricides  did  all  the  thunder  *  bend ; 
Spoke,  with  how  manifold  and  strong  a  bond 
The  child  was  boimd  to   the  father : — Sir,   in 

fine, 
Seeing  how  loathly  opposite  I  stood 
To  his  unnatural  purpose,  in  fell  motion, 
.  With  his  prepared  sword,  he  charges  home 
My  unprovided  body,  launch'd^  mine  arm  : 
And  when  he  saw  my  best  alarum'd  spirits. 
Bold  in  the  quarrel's  i"ight,  rous'd  to  the  en- 
counter. 
Or  whether  ghasted  by  the  noise  I  made. 
Full  suddenly  he  fled. 

Glo.  Let  him  fly  far ; 

Not  in  this  land  shall  he  remain  uncaught : 
And   found — Despatch. — The  noble   duke   my 

master, 
My  worthy  arch  and  patron,  comes  to-night: 
By  his  authority  I  will  proclaim  it, 

■=  The  thunder — in  the  first  q\iavto,  their  thunders. 
^  Launch'd — the    folio  lias   lalch'd — the    quartos  launcht, 
meaning  lanc'd.  So  Spenser—'  Fjiiry  Queen,'  Book  i.,  c.  4 — 
"  For  since  my  breast  was  launcht  with  lovely  dart 
Of  dear  Sansfoy,  I  never  joyed  hour." 
And  Dryden— •  Viigil,'  Geor.  iii. — 

"  Receipts  abound;  but  searching  all  thy  store 
The  best  is  still  at  hand,  to  launch  the  sore." 

418 


That   he  which   finds   him   shall   deserve   out 

thanks. 
Bringing  the  murderous  coward  to  the  stake; 
He  that  conceals  him,  death. 

Edm.  When  I  dissuaded  him  from  his  intent. 
And  found  him  pight "  to  do  it,  with  curst  speech 
I  threaten'd  to  discover  him  :  He  replied, 
'Thou  unpossessing  bastard!  dost  thou  think. 
If  I  would  stand  against  thee,  would  the  reposal 
Of  any  trust,  virtue,  or  worth,  in  thee 
Make  thy  words  faith'd?    No  :  what  I   should 

deny, 
(As  this  I  would;  ay,  though  thou  didst  pro- 
duce 
My  very  character, '')  Pd  turn  it  all 
To  thy  suggestion,  plot,  and  damned  practice  : 
And  thou  must  make  a  dullard  of  the  world, 
If  they  not  thought  the  profits  of  my  death 
Were  very  pregnant  and  potential  spurs  *= 
To  make  thee  seek  it.' 

Glo.  O  strange  •'  and  fasten'd  villain  ! 

Would  he  deny  his  letter,  said  he?  — [I  never 

got  him.*]  [^Trumpets  within. 

Hark,  the  duke's  trumpets!     I  know  notwher'*^ 

he  comes: 
All  ports  I'll  bar;  the  villain  shall  not  'scape; 
The  duke  must  grant  me  that :  besides,  his  pic- 
ture 
I  will  send  far  and  near,  that  all  the  kingdom 
May  have  due  note  of  him ;  and  of  my  land. 
Loyal  and  natural  boy,  I'll  work  the  means 
To  make  thee  capable. 

Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  and  Attendants. 

Corn.     How  now,  my  noble  friend  ?  since  I 
came  hither, 
(Which   I  can   call  but   now,)   I    have  heard 
strange  news. » 
Reg.  If  it  be  true,  all  vengeance  comes  too 
short 
Which  can  pursue  the  offender.     How  dost,  my 
lord? 
Glo.  O,  madam,  my  old  heart  is  crack'd ;  it's 

crack'd ! 
Reg.  What,  did  my  father's  godson  seek  your 
life ! 
He  whom  my  father  nam'd?  your  Edgar? 
Glo.  O,  lady,  lady,  shame  would  have  it  hid  ! 
Reg.  Was  he  not  companion  with  the  riotous 
knights 

"  Pight — settled — pitched. 

••  Character — hand-writing. 

"^  Spurs — so  the  quartos ;  the  folio,  spirits. 

^  Strange — in  the  folio;  the  quartos,  strong. 

'  The  words  in  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 

'  Wher' — wlierefore. 

s  Strange  news — so  the  quartos;  the  folio,  strangeness. 


Aor  II.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  II. 


That  tended  upon  my  father? 

Glo.  I  know  not,  madam :  'tis  too  bad,  too 

bad.— 
Edm.  Yes,  madam,  he  was  of  that  consort. " 
Reg.  No   marvel   then   though   he   were   ill 
affected  ; 
'Tis  they  have  put  him  on  the  old  man's  death. 
To   have   th'   expense    and   waste  ^  of  his  re- 
venues. 
I  have  this  present  evening  from  my  sister 
Been  well  inform 'd  of  them ;    and  with  such 

cautions. 
That  if  they  come  to  sojourn  at  my  house 
I'll  not  be  there. 

Corn.  Nor  I,  assure  thee,  Regan. — 

Edmund,  I  hear  that  you   have  shown   your 

father 
A  child-like  office. 

Edm.  It  was  my  duty,  sir. 

Glo.  He  did  bewray  =  his  practice  ;  and  re- 
ceiv'd 
This  hurt  you  see,  striving  to  apprehend  him. 
Corn.  Is  he  pursued  ? 

Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Corn.  If  he  be  taken,  he  shall  never  more 
Be  fear'd  of  doing  harm  :  make  your  own  pur- 
pose, 
How   in    my   strength   you   please. — For   you, 

Edmund, 
Whose  virtue  and  obedience  doth  this  instant 
So  much  commend  itself,  you  shall  be  ours ; 
Natures  of  such  deep  trust  we  shall  much  need ; 
You  we  first  seize  on. 

Edm.  I  shall  serve  you,  sir, 

Truly,  however  else. 

Glo.  For  him  I  thank  your  grace. 

Corn.  You  know  not  why  we  came  to  visit 

you,— 
Reg.  Thus  out   of  season  ;    threading  dark- 
ey'd  night. 
Occasions,  noble  Gloster,  of  some  poize. 
Wherein  we  must  have  use  of  your  advice  : — 
Our  father  he  hath  writ,  so  hath  our  sister. 
Of  differences,  which  I  best  thought  it  fit 
To  answer  from  our  home ;  the  several  messen- 
gers 
From  hence  attend  despatch.      Our   good  old 

friend, 
Lay  comforts  to  your  bosom ;  and  bestow 


»  Of  that  Ciinsort — tliese  words  are  not  found  in  the  quartos, 
and  tlierelore  are  omitted  by  tlie  modern  editors,  to  the  injury 
of  the  sense. 

•>  Expense  and  ivaste — in  the  folio;  one  of  the  quartos, 
waste  and  spM,  which  is  adopted  by  the  modern  editors. 
Expense  is  expenditure,  a  step  before  waste. 

'  Bnwiay—  reveal . 


Your  needful  counsel  to  our  businesses, " 
Which  craves  the  instant  use. 

Glo.  I  serve  you,  madam  : 

Your  graces  are  right  welcome.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Kent  and  Steward,  severally. 

Stew,  Good  dawning  to  thee,  friend  :  Art  of 
this  house? 

Kent.  Ay. 

Stew.  Where  may  we  set  our  horses  ? 

Kent.  V  the  mire. 

Stew.  Prithee,  if  thou  lov'st  me,  tell  me. 

Kent.  I  love  thee  not. 

Stew.  Why,  then  I  care  not  for  thee. 

Kent.  If  I  had  thee  in  Lipsbury  pinfold,  I 
would  make  thee  care  for  me. 

Stew.  Why  dost  thou  use  me  thus  ?  I  know 
thee  not. 

Kent.  Fellow,  I  know  thee. 

Stew.  What  dost  thou  know  me  for  ? 

Kent.  A  knave  ;  a  rascal ;  an  eater  of  broken 
meats  ;  a  base,  proud,  shallow,  beggarly,  three- 
suited,  hundred-pound,  filthy  worsted-stocking 
knave;  a  lily-liver'd,  action-taking,  whoreson, 
glass-gazing,  superserviceable,  finical  rogue ; 
one-trunk-inheriting  slave ;  one  that  wouldst 
be  a  bawd,  in  way  of  good  service,  and  art 
nothing  but  the  composition  of  a  knave,  beggar, 
coward,  pander,  and  the  son  and  heir  of  a  mon- 
grel bitch  :  one  whom  I  will  beat  into  clamorous 
whining,  if  thou  deny'st  the  least  syllable  of  thy 
addition.'' 

Stew.  Why,  what  a  monstrous  fellow  art  thou, 
thus  to  rail  on  one  that  is  neither  known  of  thee, 
nor  knows  thee. 

Kent.  What  a  brazen-faced  varlet  art  thou, 
to  deny  thou  know'st  me  ?  Is  it  two  days  since 
I  tripp'd  up  thy  heels,  and  beat  thee,  before  the 
king  ?  Draw,  you  rogue  :  for,  thougli  it  be 
night,  yet  the  moon  slunes ;  I'll  make  a  sop  o' 
the  moonshine  of  you,  you  whoreson  cullionly 
barber-monger.     Draw.        \I)ratv'mg  his  stvord. 

Stew.  Away;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
thee. 

Kent.  Draw,  you  rascal:  you  come  with  let- 


^  Businesses — the  quartos,  ftuviness. 

*■  The  description  of  an  individual  in  a  legal  document  is 
called  his  addition.  We  agree  with  Tieck  that  tlie  attempts 
of  the  commeutators  to  explain  ihe  additions  which  Kent 
bestows  upon  the  Steward  are  very  unsatisfactory.  Some 
are  obvious  enough:  others  were  probably  intelligible  to 
Shakspere's  contemporaries;  but  several,  in  all  likelihood, 
belong  to  those  figures  of  speech  which  we  now  call  slang. 
It  must  be  recollected  that  Kent  has  assumed  the  character 
of  a  serving  man. 

419 


iUvf  ll.J 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENK  II. 


ters  against  the  king,  and  take  vanity  the  pup- 
pet's part,  against  the  royalty  of  her  father: 
Draw,  you  rogue,  or  I'll  so  carbonado  your 
shanks: — draw,  yovi  rascal :  come  your  ways. 

Slew.  Help,  hoa  !  murder  !  help  ! 

Kent.  Strike,  you  slave ;  stand,  rogue ;  stand, 
you  neat  slave  ;  strike.  \_Beati7ig  him. 

Stew.  Help,  hoa!  murder!  murder! 

Enter  Edmund,  Cornwall,  Regan,  Gloster, 
and  Servants. 

Edm.  How  now?  What 's  the  matter  ?  Part. 
Kent.  With  you,  goodman  boy,  if  you  please  ; 
come,  I  '11  flesh  you  ;  come  on,  young  master. 

Glo.  Weapons!  arms!  What's  the  matter 
here  ? 

Corn.  Keep  peace,  upon  your  lives; 
He    dies    that    strikes    again :     What   is    the 
matter  1 
Reg.  The  messengers  from  our  sister  and  the 

king. 
Corn.  What  is  your  difference?  speak. 
Stew.  I  am  scarce  in  breath,  my  lord. 
Kent.  No  marvel,  you  have  so  bestirr'd  your 
valour.     You  cowardly  rascal,  nature  disclaims 
in  tliee  ;  a  tailor  made  thee. 

Cor7i.  Thou  art  a  strange  fellow  :  a  tailor 
make  a  man  ? 

Kent.    A    tailor,   sir,    a    stone-cutter,    or   a 
painter,  could  not  have  made  him  so  ill,  though 
they  had  been  but  two  hours  *  at  the  trade. 
Corn.  Speak  yet,  how  grew  your  quarrel  ? 
Stew.  This  ancient  ruffian,  sir,  whose  life  I 
have  spar'd. 
At  suit  of  his  grey  beard, — 

Kent.  Thou  whoreson  zed !  thou  unnecessary 
letter! — My  lord,  if  you  will  give  me  leave,  I 
will  tread  this  unbolted  villain  into  mortar,  and 
daub  the  wall  of  a  jakes  with  him.  — Spare  my 
grey  beard,  you  wagtail  ? 

Corn.  Peace,  sirrah ! 
You  beastly  knave,  know  you  no  I'everence  ? 
Kent.  Yes,  sir ;  but  anger  hath  a  privilege. 
Corn.  Why  art  thou  angry  ? 
Kent.  That  such  a  slave  as  this  should  wear 
a  sword. 
Who  wears  no  honesty.    Such  smiling  rogues  as 

these, 
Like  rats,  oft  bite  the  holy  cords  atwain 
Which  are  toointrinse''  t'  unloose:  smooth  every 

passion 
That  in  the  natures  of  their  lords  rebels  ; 
Bring  oil  to  fire,  snow  to  their  colder  moods  ; 

»  Hours — so  llie  quartos  ;  the  folio,  years. 
••  Intrinsc — closely  tied. 

420 


Renege,"  affirm,  and  turn  their  halcyon  beaks '' 
With  every  gale  and  vary  of  their  masters. 
Knowing  nought,  like  dogs,  but  following. — 
A  plague  upon  your  epileptic  visage ! 
Smile  you  my  speeches,  as  I  were  a  fool  ? 
Goose,  if  I  had  you  upon  Sarum  plain, 
I  'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Camelot.' 
Co7-n.  What,  art  thou  mad,  old  fellow  ? 
Glo.  How  fell  you  out? 

Say  that. 

Kent.  No  contraries  hold  more  antipathy, 
Than  I  and  such  a  knave. 

Corn.  Why  dost  thou  call  him  knave?   What 

is  his  fault?  <= 
Kent.  His  countenance  likes  me  not. 
Corn.  No  more,  perchance,  does  mine,  or  his, 

or  hers. 
Ke?it.  Sir,  'tis  my  occupation  to  be  plain ; 
I  have  seen  better  faces  in  my  time, 
Than  stands  on  any  shoulder  that  I  see 
Before  me  at  this  instant. 

Corn.  This  is  some  fellow, 

Who,  having  been  prais'd  for  bluntness,  doth 

affect 
A  saucy  roughness ;  and  constrains  the  garb 
Quite  from  his  nature :  He  cannot  flatter,  he  ! — 
An  honest   mind   and   plain, — he  must  speak 

truth : 
An  they  will  take  it,  so;  if  not,  he's  plain. 
These  kind   of  knaves   I   know,  which  in  this 

plainness 
Harbovir  more  craft,  and  more  corrupter  ends, 
Than  twenty  silly  ducking  observants, 
That  stretch  their  duties  nicely. 

Kent.  Sir,  in  good  faith,  in  sincere  verity, 
Under  the  allowance  of  your  great  •*  aspect, 
Whose  influence,  like  the  wreath  of  radiant  fire 
On  flickering  Phoebus'  front, — 

Corn.  What  mean'st  by  this  ? 

Kent.  To  go  out  of  my  dialect,  which  you  dis- 
commend so  much.  I  know,  sir,  I  am  no  flat- 
terer :  he  that  beguiled  you,  in  a  plain  accent, 
was  a  plain  knave  :  which,  for  my  part,  I  will 
not  be,  though  I  should  win  yoiu-  displeasure  to 
entreat  me  to  it. 

Cor7i.  What  was  the  offence  you  gave  him  ? 

•  Renege — so  the  quartos;  the  folio,  revenge.  To  renege  is 
to  deny. 

^  Halcyon   heahs — The   halcyon   is     the    kingfisher ;    and 
there  was  a  popular  opinion  tliat  ilie  bird,  if  hung  up,  would 
iriilicate  by  the  turning  of  its  beak  the  point  from  which  the 
wind  blew.     So  in  Marlowe's  '  Jew  of  Malta' — 
"  But  how  now  stands  the  wind? 

Into  what  corner  peers  my  halcyon's  hillf" 

"  JVhat  is  his  fault  ? — the  quartos,  what 's  his  offence? 

■^  Great — the  quartos,  grand.  The  change  was  not  made 
without  reason.  Although  Kent  meant  to  go  out  of  his 
dialect,  the  word  grand  sounded  irouically,  and  was  calcu- 
lated to  oftend  more  than  was  needful. 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENK  11- 


Stew.  I  never  gave  him  any.a 
It  pleas'd  the  king  his  master,  very  late, 
To  strike  at  me,  upon  his  misconstruction  ; 
When  lie,  compact,''  and  flattering  his  displea- 
sure, 
Ti'ipp'd  me  behind  :  being  down,  insulted,  rail'd, 
And  put  upon  him  such  a  deal  of  man, 
That  worthy'd  him,  got  praises  of  the  king 
For  him  attempting  who  was  self-subdued  ; 
And,  in  the  fleshment  of  this  dread  exploit. 
Drew  on  me  here  again. 

Kent.         None  of  these  rogues  and  cowards. 
But  Ajax  is  their  fool. 

Corn.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks ! 

You  stubborn  ancient  knave,  you  reverent  brag- 
gart. 
We  '11  teach  you — 

Kent.  Sir,  I  am  too  old  to  learn  : 

Call  not  your  stocks  for  me  :  I  serve  the  king  ; 
On  whose  employment  I  was  sent  to  you : 
You  shall  do  small  respects,  show  too  bold  malice 
Against  the  grace  and  person  of  my  master, 
Stocking  his  messenger. 

Cor7i.  Fetch  forth  the  stocks  : 

As  I  have  life  and  honour,  there  shall  he  sit  till 
noon. 

Reg.  Till  noon  !  till  night,  my  lord ;  and  all 
night,  too. 

Kent.  Why,   madam,  if  I  were  your  father's 
dog. 
You  should  not  use  me  so. 

Reg.  Sir,  being  his  knave,  I  will. 

\^Stoclcs  brought  out. 

Corn.  This  is  a  fellow  of  the  self-same  colour 
Our  sister  speaks  of: — Come,  bring  away  the 
stocks. 

Glo.  Let  me  beseech  your  grace  not  to  do  so  : 
[His  fault  is  much,  and  the  good  king  his  master 
Will  check  him  for  't :  your  purpos'd  low  correc- 
tion 
Is  such  as  basest  and  contemned'st  wretches, 
For  pilferings  and  most  common  trespasses, 
Are  punish'd  with  f'\   the  king  must  take  it  ill, 
That  he,  so  slightly  valued  in  his  messenger. 
Should  have  him  thus  restrain'd. 
-    Corn.  I  '11  answer  that. 

Reg.  My  sister  may  receive   it  much  more 
worse, 


»  I  never  gave  Mm  any — so  all  the  old  copies.  Tlie  modern 
editions  read,  never  any- 

••  Compact— \.\\e  (juartos,  conjunct.  Compact  is  liere  used 
in  the  sense  of  confederate. 

•=  The  lines  in  liracUets  are  omitted  in  the  folio.  It  is  clear 
that  the  omission  was  not  accidental  or  capricious,  for  in 
that  edition  the  subsequent  passage  is  altered  to  — 

"The  king  his  master  needs  must  lake  it  ill." 


To  have  her  gentleman  abus'd,  assaulted, 
[For  following  her  affairs. — Put  in  his  legs. — "] 
[Kent  is  put  in  the  stocks. 
Come,  my  lord ;  away. 

[^Exeunt  Regan  and  Cornwall. 
Glo.  I  am  sorry  for  thee,   friend ;    'tis   the 
duke's  pleasure, 
Whose  disposition,  all  the  world  well  knows. 
Will  not  be  rubb'd,  nor  stopp'd  :  I'll  entreat  for 
thee. 
Kent.  Pray,  do  not,  sir :  I  have  watchd,  and 
travell'd  hard ; 
Some  time  I  shall  sleep  out,  the  rest  I'll  whistle. 
A  good  man's  fortune  may  grow  out  at  heels  : 
Give  you  good  morrow  ! 

Glo.  The  duke  's  to  blame  in  this ;  'twill  be 
ill  taken.  [Exit. 

Kent.  Good  king,  that  must  approve  the  com- 
mon saw ; 
Thou  out  of  heaven's  benediction  com'st 
To  the  warm  sun!  '' 

Approach,  thou  beacon  to  this  under  globe, 
That  by  thy  comfortable  beams  I  may 
Peruse  this  letter! — Nothing  almost  sees  mira- 
cles, 
But  misery  : — I  know  'tis  from  Cordelia ; 
Who  hath  most  fortunately  been  inform'd 
Of  my  obscm'ed  course ;  and  shall  find  time 
From  this  enoi'mous  state, — seeking  to  give 
Losses  their   remedies  :  *^ — All  weary  and  o'er- 

watch'd. 
Take  vantage,  heavy  eyes,  not  to  behold 
This  shameful  lodging. 

Fortune,  good  night;   smile  once  more;  turn 
thy  wheel !  [He  sleeps. 


»  This  line  is  also  omitted  in  the  folio. 

>"  The  common  saw  alluded  to  is  found  in  Hey  wood's 
'  Dialogues  and  Proverbs '  : — 

"  In  your  running  from  him  to  me. 

Ye  run  out  of  God's  blessiug  into  the  warm  sun." 
When  Hamlet  says,  "  I  am  too  much  i' tlie  sun,"  he  refers 
to  the  same   proverb,   which   occurs  in   several   books  of 
Shakspere's  time.   (See  note  on  Hamlet,  Act  i.,  Sc.  ii.) 

'  This  monologue  of  Kent's  has  presented  many  difficulties 
to  the  modern  editors.  In  the  original  copies  there  are  no 
stage  directions  ;  but  iu  the  modern  editions  which  preceded 
Johnson's  we  find  several  of  these  forms  of  explanation, 
wiiich  have  lieen  rejected  of  late  years.  Wlien  Kent  says — 

"  Approach  thou  beacon  to  this  under  globe," 
there  was  formerly  inserted  in  the  margin  looking  up  to  the 
moon.  It  is  now  ])retty  well  agreed  that  the  beacon  is  the 
sun ;  and  that  Kent  wishes  for  its  rising  that  he  may  read 
the  letter.  But  the  early  editors  considered  that  upon  Kent's 
invocation  the  moon  ajipeared ;  and  when  he  says  'tis 
from  Cordelia  they  add  a  direction — opening  the  letter.  Some 
of  tlie  remaining  portions  of  his  speech  they  consider  as  parts 
of  the  letter,  and  gi\e  a  direction  accordingly.  We  agree 
with  Malone  that,  although  Kent  has  a  letter  from  Cordelia, 
and  knows  that  she  has  been  informed  of  his  "  obscured 
course,  "  he  is  unable  to  read  it  in  the  dim  dawning.  Tieck 
says,  "  The  poet  desires  here  to  remind  us  again  of  Cordelia, 
and  to  give  a  distant  intimation  that  wholly  new  events  are 
about  to  be  introduced." 

421 


AoTll.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scenes  III.,  IV. 


SCENE  III.— y^  part  of  the  Heath. 

Enter  Edgar. 

Edg.  I  heard  myself  proclaim'd; 
And,  by  the  happy  hollow  of  a  tree, 
Escap'd  the  hunt.     No  port  is  free  ;  no  place, 
That  guard,  and  most  unusual  vigilance. 
Does  not  attend  my  taking.  Whiles  I  may  'scape, 
I  will  preserve  myself :  and  am  bethought 
To  take  the  basest  and  most  poorest  shape. 
That  ever  penury,  in  contempt  of  man, 
Brought  near  to  beast :  my  face  I'll  grime  with 

filth; 
Blanket  my  loins ;  elf  all  my  hair  in  knots  5 
And  with  presented  nakedness  out-face 
The  winds  and  persecutions  of  the  sky. 
The  country  gives  me  proof  and  precedent 
Of  Bedlam  beggars,  who,  with  roaring  voices, 
Strike  in  their  numb'd  and  mortified  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  rosemary ; 
And  with  this  horrible  object,  from  low  farms. 
Poor  pelting  *  villages,  sheep-cotes  and  mills. 
Sometime  with  lunatic   bans,  ^   sometime  with 

prayers, 
Enforce  their  charity.  * — Poor  Turlygod !    poor 

Tom ! 
That 's  something  yet ; — Edgar  I  nothing  am. 

lExit. 

SCENE  \Y.— Before  Gloster's  Castle. 
Enter  Lear,  Fool,  and  Gentleman. 

Lear.  'Tis  strange,  that  they  should  so  de- 
part from  home. 
And  not  send  back  my  messenger. 

Gent.  As  I  learn'd. 

The  night  before  there  was  no  purpose  in  them 
Of  this  remove. 

Kent.  Hail  to  thee,  noble  master  ! 

Lear.  Ha! 
Mak'st  thou  this  shame  thy  pastime  ? 

Kent.  No,  my  lord. 

Fool.  Ha,  ha;  he  wears  cruel  garters  !  Horses 
are  tied  by  the  heads ;  dogs  and  bears  by  the 
neck ;  monkeys  by  the  loins ;  and  men  by  the 
legs  :  when  a  man  is  over-lusty  at  legs,  then  he 
wears  wooden  nether-stocks. "^ 

Lear.  What 's  he  that  hath  so  much  thy  place 
mistook 
To  set  thee  here  ? 

Ke7it.  It  is  both  he  and  she. 

Your  son  and  daughter. 

•  Pettray— petty— of  little   worth.     (See  note  on  Richard 
II.,  Act  11.  Sc.  \.) 
>■  Bans — curses. 
"  Nether-stocks — stockings. 
422 


Lear.  No. 

Kent.  Yes. 

Lear.  No,  I  say. 

Kent.  I  say,  yea. 

\^Lear.  No,  no ;  they  would  not, 

Kent.  Yes,  they  have.*] 

Lear.  By  Jupiter,  I  swear,  no. 

Kent.  By  Juno,  I  swear,  ay. 

Lear.  They  durst  not  do  't ; 
They  could   not,  would   not  do  't ;    't  is  worse 

than  murder. 
To  do  upon  respect  such  violent  outrage  : 
Resolve  me,  with  all  modest  haste,  which  way 
Thou  might'st  deserve,    or   they   impose,    this 

usage. 
Coming  from  us. 

Kent.  My  lord,  when  at  their  home 

I  did  commend  your  highness'  letters  to  them, 
Ere  I  was  risen  from  the  place  that  show'd 
My  duty  kneeling,  came  there  a  reeking  post, 
Stew'd  in  his  haste,  half  breathless,  panting  forth 
From  Goneril  his  mistress,  salutations ; 
Deliver'd  letters,  spite  of  intermission, 
Which  presently  they  read :  on  those  contents 
They  summon'd  up  their  meiny,''  straight  took 

horse ; 
Commanded  me  to  follow,  and  attend 
The  leisure  of  their  answer  ;  gave  me  cold  looks  : 
And  meeting  here  the  other  messenger. 
Whose  welcome,  I  perceiv'd,  had  poison'd  mine, 
(Being  the  very  fellow  which  of  late 
Display'd  so  saucily  against  your  highness,) 
Having  more  man  than  wit  about  me,  drew  ;  * 
He  rais'd  the  house  with  loud  and  coward  cries: 
Your  son  and  daughter  found  this  trespass  worth 
The  shame  which  here  it  suffers. 

Fool.  Whiter 's  not  gone  yet,  if  the  wild  geese 
fly  that  way. 
Fathers  that  wear  rags  do  make  their  children 

blind ; 
But  fathers  that  bear  bags  shall  see  their  chil- 
dren kind. 
Fortune,  that  arrant  whore,  ne'er  turns  the  key 

to  the  poor. — 
But,  for  all  this,  thou  shalt  have  as  many  do- 
lours'* for  thy  daughters,  as  thou  can'st  tell  in  a 
year. 


•  The  lines  in  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 

•i  Meiny — retinue — attendants — hence  the  adjective  menial. 
In  the  old  translation  of  the  bible  we  tind  "  And  Al>rdham 
saddled  bis  ass.  and  took  two  of  his  me\  ny  with  him,  and 
Isaac  his  son."  In  our  present  translation  we  have  yuung 
men  in  the  place  of  meyny. 

"=  Drew. — The  personal  pronoun  I  is  understood  before 
drew. 

"*  Dolours.  There  is  a  quibble  here  between  dolours  and 
dullurs. 


Act  II.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  IV. 


Lear.  O,  how  this  mother  swells  up  toward 

my  heai't ! 

Hysterica  passio  ! — down,  thou  climbing  soitow, 

Thy  element 's  below  ! — Where  is  this  daughter? 

Kent.  With  the  earl,  sir,  here  within. 

Lear.  Follow  me  not ; 

Stay  here.  [Exit. 

Gent.  Made  you  no  more  offence  but  what 

you  speak  of? 
Kent.  None. 
How  chance  the  king  comes  with  so  small  a 
number  ?  * 
Fool.  An  thou  hadst  been  set  i'  the  stocks  for 
that  question,  thou  hadst  well  deserved  it. 
Kent.  Why,  fool? 

Fool.  We  '11  set  thee  to  school  to  an  ant,  to 
teach  thee  there  's  no  labouring  in  the  winter. 
All  that  follow  their  noses  are  led  by  their  eyes, 
but  blind  men ;  and  there  's  not  a  nose  among 
twenty  but  can  smell  him  that 's  stinking.  Let 
go  thy  hold,  when  a  great  wheel  runs  down  a 
hill,  lest  it  break  thy  neck  with  following ;  but 
the  great  one  that  goes  upward, ''  let  him  draw 
thee  after.  When  a  wise  man  gives  thee  better 
counsel,  give  me  mine  again :  I  woidd  have 
none  but  knaves  follow  it,  since  a  fool  gives  it. 
That,  sir,  which  serves  and  seeks  for  gain, 

And  follows  but  for  form. 
Will  pack,  when  it  begins  to  rain, 

And  leave  thee  in  the  storm. 
But  I  will  tarry ;  the  fool  will  stay, 

And  let  the  wise  man  fly : 
The  knave  turns  fool  that  runs  away ; 
The  fool  no  knave,  perdy. 
Kent.  Where  learn'd  you  this,  fool  ? 
Fool.  Not  i'  the  stocks,  fool. 

Re-enter  Lear,  with  Gloster. 
Lear.  Deny  to  speak  with   me  ?     They  are 
sick  ?  they  are  weary  ? 
They  have  travell'd  all  the  night?  Mere  fetches; 
The  images  of  revolt  and  flying  off ! 
Fetch  me  a  better  answer. 

Glo.  My  dear  lord, 

You  know  the  fiery  quality  of  the  duke  ; 
How  unremoveable  and  fix'd  he  is 
In  his  own  course. 

Lear.  Vengeance  !    plague !    death !    confu- 
sion ! — 
Fiery?  what  quality?  why,  Gloster,  Gloster, 
I  'd  speak  with  the  duke  of  Cornwall  and  his 
wife. 
Glo.  Well,  my   good  lord,   I  have   inform'd 
them  so. 

'  Number — the  quartos,  train. 

•>  Upward — the  quartos,  up  the  hilt. 


Lear.  Inform'd  them !  Dost  thou  understand 

me,  man  ? 
Glo.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
Lear.  The  king  would  speak  with  Cornwall; 

the  dear  father 
Would   with   his   daughter  speak,   commands, 

tends,  service :  * 
Are  they  inform'd  of  this? My  breath  and 

blood!— 
Fiery  !    the   fiery   duke ! — Tell   the   hot   duke, 

that— 
No,  but  not  yet : — may  be,  he  is  not  well: 
Infirmity  doth  still  neglect  all  ofiice. 
Whereto  our  health  is  bound ;  we  are  not  our- 
selves, 
When  nature,  being  oppress'd,  commands   the 

mind 
To  suflfer  with  the  body  :  I'll  forbear  ; 
And  am  fallen  out  with  my  more  headier  will. 
To  take  the  indispos'd  and  sickly  fit 
For   the   sound   man.  —  Death    on    my  state! 

wherefore  [Looking  on  Kent. 

Should  he  sit  here  ?     This  act  persuades  me, 
That  this  remotion  of  the  duke  and  her 
Is  practice  only.     Give  me  my  servant  forth  : 
Go,  tell  the  duke  and  his  wife,  I  'd  speak  with 

them, 
Now,  presently :  bid  them  6ome  forth  and  hear 

me, 
Or  at  their  chamber  door  I'll  beat  the  drum, 
Till  it  cry  sleep  to  death. '' 

Glo.  I  'd  have  all  well  betwixt  you.       [Exit. 
Lear.  O  me,  my  heart,  my  rising  heart ! — 

but,  down. 
Fool.  Cry  to  it,  nuncle,  as  the  cockney  did  to 
the  eels,*  when  she  put  them  i'  the  paste  alive  ; 
she  knapp'd  'em  o'  the  coxcombs  with  a  stick, 
and  cry'd,  'Down,  wantons,  down:'  'Twas  her 
brother  that,  in  pure  kindness  to  his  horse, 
butter'd  his  hay. 

Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  Gloster,  and 
Servants. 

Lear.  Good  morrow  to  you  both. 
Cor7i.  Hail  to  your  grace  ! 

[Kent  is  set  at  liberty. 
Bey.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  highness. 
Lear.  Regan,  I  think  you  are  ;  I  know  what 
reason 

'  Commands,  tends,  seivice.  The  quartos,  commands  her 
service. 

b  Till  it  cry  sleep  to  death.  We  point  this  passage  as  in  the 
original  copies.  It  is  given  in  all  the  modern  editions  "  till 
it  cry— Sleep  to  death"— as  if  the  drum  said,  sleep  to  death. 
Tieck  suggested  the  true  explanation— till  the  noise  of  the 
drum  has  been  the  death  of  sleep— has  destroyed  sleep— has 
forced  them  to  awaken. 

423 


Act  II. 1 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCFNF    IV. 


I  have  to  think  so  ;  if  thou  shoiildst  not  be  glad, 
I  would  divorce  me  from  thy  mother's  tomb, 
Sepulch'ring  an  adultress. — O,  are  you  free? 

[To  Kent. 
Some  other  time  for  that. — Beloved  Regan, 
Thy  sister  's  naught :  O  Regan,  she  hath  tied 
Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture,  here, — 
\^Poi7its  to  his  heart. 
I  can  scarce  speak  to  thee  ;  thou  'It  not  believe, 
With  how  deprav'd  a  quality — O  Regan ! 

Ren.    I  pray  you,  sir,  take  patience ;  I  have 
hope 
You  less  know  how  to  value  her  desert, 
Than  she  to  scant  her  duty.  * 

Lear.  Say,  how  is  that? 

Reg.  I  cannot  think  my  sister  in  the  least 
Would  fail  her  obligation  :  If,  sir,  perchance. 
She  have  restrain'd  the  riots  of  your  followers, 
'Tis  on  such  ground,  and  to  such  wholesome 

end. 
As  clears  her  from  all  blame. 

Lear.  My  curses  on  her  ! 

Reg.  O,  sir,  you  are  old ; 

Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine  :  you  should  be  rul'd,  and  led 
By  some  discretion,  that  discerns  your  state 
Better  than  you  yourself:    Therefore,    I   pray 

you, 
That  to  our  sister  you  do  make  return  : 
Say,  you  have  wrong'd  her. 

Lear.  Ask  her  forgiveness ? 

Do  you  but  mark  how  this  becomes  the  house  ?*" 
'  Dear  daughter,  I  confess  that  I  am  old; 
Age  is  unnecessary  :  on  my  knees  I  beg,'= 
That  you  '11  vouchsafe   me   raiment,  bed,  and 
food.' 

Reg.  Good  sir,  no  more ;    these  are  unsightly 
tricks  : 
Return  you  to  my  sister. 

Lear.  Never,  Regan: 

She  hath  abated  me  of  half  my  train  ; 
Look'd  black  upon  me ;    strook  me   with   her 

tongvie. 
Most  serpent-like,  upon  the  vei*y  heart : — 
All  the  stor'd  vengeances  of  heaven  fall 

"  The  construction  here  is  involved,  but  the  meaning  is 
evident.  You  less  know  hosv  to  value  her  desert,  than  she 
knows  to  scant  lier  duty. 

*>  The  house.  Tlieobald  changed  this  fine  expression  to  the 
use.  Capell,  who,  in  spite  of  his  obscurities,  often  displays  a 
fund  of  good  sense  which  has  been  too  much  neglected,  says, 
"  This  is  one  of  the  lines  that  mark  Shakspere     .  .     . 

the  house  is  an  expression  worthy  his  genius ;  fathers  are  not 
the  heads  only  of  a  house  or  a  family,  but  its  representatives; 
they  are  the  house,  what  affects  them  affects  the  rest  of  its 
body." 

"  In  the  modern  editions  we  have  here  the  stage  direction 
kneeling.  We  doubt  the  propriety  of  this.  Lear  is  not  ad- 
dressing these  words  to  Regan,  but  is  repeating  what  he  would 
say  to  Goneril  if  he  should  ask  her  forgiveness. 

424 


On  her  ingrateful  top  !  Strike  her  young  bones, 
You  taking  airs,  with  lameness  ! 

Corn.  Fye,  sir,  fye! 

Lear.  You    nimble    lightnings,     dart    your 
blinding  flames 
Into  her  scornful  eyes !  Infect  her  beauty. 
You  fen-suck'd  fogs,  drawn  by  the  powerful  sun, 
To  fall  and  blister.* 

Reg.  O  the  blest  gods  ! 

So  will  you  wish  on  me,  when  the  rash  mood 's 
on. 

Lear.  No,  Regan,  thou  shalt  never  have  my 
curse ; 
Thy  tender-hefted  •>  nature  shall  not  give 
Thee  o'er  to  harshness ;  her  eyes  are  fierce,  but 

thine 
Do  comfort,  and  not  burn:   'Tis  not  in  thee 
To  grudge  my  pleasures,  to  cut  off  my  train. 
To  bandy  hasty  words,  to  scant  my  sizes,<= 
And,  in  conclusion,  to  oppose  the  bolt 
Against  my  coming  in  :  thou  better  know'st 
The  offices  of  nature,  bond  of  childhood, 
Effects  of  courtesy,  dues  of  gratitude; 
Thy  half  o'  the  kingdom  hast  thou  not  forgot, 
Wherein  I  thee  endow'd. 

Reg.  Good  sir,  to  the  purpose. 

[^Trumpets  ivithin. 

Lear.  Who  put  my  man  i'  the  stocks  ? 

Corn.  What  trumpet's  that? 

Enter  Steward. 

Reg.  I  know 't,  my  sister's  :  this  approves  her 
letter. 
That  she  would  soon  be  here. — Is   your  lady 
come? 
Lear.  This  is  a  slave,  whose  easy-borrow'd 
pride 
Dwells  in  the  fickle  grace  of  her  he  follows : — 
Out,  varlet,  from  my  sight ! 

Corn.  What  means  your  grace? 

Lear.  Who  stock'd  my  servant?   Regan,   I 
have  good  hope 
Thou  didst  not  know  on  't. — Who  comes  here  ? 
O,  heavens, 

Enter  Goneril. 

If  you  do  love  old  men,  if  your  sweet  sway 
Allow  obedience,  if  you  yourselves  ^  are  old, 

*  Blister — The  quartos  reiid  blast  her  pride. 

b  Tender-hefted— The  qu.artos  read  tender-hested .  Steevens 
says,  hefted  seems  to  mean  tlie  same  as  heaved.  We  doubt 
this,  tiffi — haft — is  that  which  is  Aa«ed — held;  and  thus,  thy 
tender-hefted  nature  may  be  thy  nature  which  maybe  held  by 
tenderness. 

'^  Sizes — allowances.  A  sizar  in  a  college  is  one  to  whom 
certain  sizes  or  portions  are  allowed. 

d  You  yourselves.  The  quartos  omit  you,  and  the  editors 
all  follow  tliat  omissi'in,  tastele.ssly  enough,  as  we  think. 


Aor  11.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[ScKNV     IV 


Make  it  your  cause  ;  send  dow  ii,  and  take  my 

part ! — 
Art  not  asham'd  to  look  upon  this  beard? — 

[To  GONERIL. 

0,  Regan,  wilt  thou  take  her  by  the  hand? 
Gon.  Why  not  by  the  hand,  sir?  How  have 

I  offended? 
All 's  not  offence  that  indiscretion  finds. 
And  dotage  terms  so. 

Lear.  O,  sides,  you  are  too  tough ! 

Will  you   yet  hold? — How  came  my  man  i'  the 
stocks? 
Corn.  I  set  him  there,  sir :  but  his  own  dis- 
orders 
Deserv'd  much  less  advancement. 

Lear.  You !  did  you  ? 

Beg.  I  pray  you,  father,  being  weak,  seem  so. 
If,  till  the  expiration  of  your  month, 
You  will  return  and  sojourn  with  my  sister, 
Dismissing  half  your  train,  come  then  to  me  ; 
1  am  now  from  home,  and  out  of  that  provision 
Which  shall  be  needful  for  your  entertainment. 
Lear.  Return  to  her,  and  fifty  men  dismiss'd  ? 
No,  rather  I  abjure  all  roofs,  and  choose 
To  wage  against  the  enmity  o'  the  air , 
To  be  a  comrade  with  the  wolf  and  owl, — 
Necessity's  sharp  pinch  ! — Return  with  her  ? 
Why,  the  hot-blooded  France,  that  dowerless 

took 
Our  youngest  boi"n,  I  could  as  well  be  brought 
To  knee    his   throne,  and,  squire-like,  pension 

beg 
To  keep  base  life  afoot: — Return  with  her? 
Persuade  me  rather  to  be  slave  and  sumpter 
To  this  detested  groom. 

{^Looking  on  the  Steward. 
Gon.  At  your  choice,  sir. 

Lear.  I  prithee,  daughter,  do  not  make  me 
mad; 
I  will  not  trouble  thee,  my  child;  farewell: 
We  '11  no  more  meet,  no  more  see  one  another :  — 
Bet  yet  thou  art  my  flesh,  my  blood,  my  daugh- 
ter ; 
Or,  rather,  a  disease  that 's  in  my  flesh, 
Which  I  must  needs  call  mine ;  thou  art  a  boil, 
A  plague-sore,  or  embossed  carbuncle. 
In  my  corrupted  blood.    But  1 11  not  chide  thee; 
Let  shame  come  when  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it : 
I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  shoot. 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  high-judging  Jove  : 
Mend,   when   thou   canst ;    be   better,    at   thy 

leisure  : 
I  can  be  patient ;  I  can  stay  with  Regan, 

1,  and  my  hundred  knights. 

Reg.  Not  altogether  so  ; 

Thaoedies. — Vol.  I.         '6  I 


I   I  look'd  not  for  you  yet,  nor  am  provided 
For  your  fit  welcome :  Give  ear,  sir,  to  my  sis- 
ter; 
For  those  that  mingle  reason  with  your  passion, 
Must  be  content  to  think  you  old,  and  so — 
But  she  knows  what  she  does. 

Lear.  Is  this  well  spoken? 

Reg.  I  dare  avouch  it,  sir  :  What,  fifty  fol- 
lowers ? 
Is  it  not  well?  What  should  you  need  of  more  ? 
Yea,  or  so  many  ?   sith  that  both  charge   and 

danger 
Speak  'gainst  so  great  a  number  ?  How,  in  one 

house. 
Should  many  people,  under  two  commands, 
Hold  amity?     'Tis  hard  ;  almost  impossible. 
Gon.  Why  might  not  you,  my  lord,  receive 
attendance 
From  those  that   she   calls   servants,   or  from 
mine? 
Reg.  Why  not,  my  lord?  If  then  they  chanc'd 
to  slack  you. 
We  could  control  them  :  If  you  will  come  to  me, 
(For  now  I  spy  a  danger,)  I  entreat  you 
To  bring  but  five-and -twenty  ;  to  no  more 
Will  I  give  j)lace,  or  notice. 
Lear.  I  gave  you  all — 

Reg.  And  in  good  time  you  gave  it. 

Lear.  Made  you  my  guardians,  my  deposi- 
taries ; 
But  kept  a  reservation  to  be  follow 'd 
With  such  a  nvmiber :  What,  must  I  come  to 

you 
With  five  and-twenty,  Regan?  said  you  so? 
Reg.  And  speak 't  again,  my  lord;  no  more 

with  me. 
Lear.  Those  wicked  creatures   yet   do   look 
well-favour'd ! 
When  others  are  more  wicked,  not  being  tlia 

worst 
Stands  in  some  rank  of  praise : — I  '11  go  with 
thee;  [7'o  Goneril. 

Thy  fifty  yet  doth  double  five-and-twenty. 
And  thou  art  twice  her  love. 

Gon.  Hear  me,  my  lord ; 

What  need  you  five-and-twenty,  ten,  or  five, 
To  follow  in  a  house,  where  twice  so  many 
Have  a  command  to  tend  you? 

Reg.  What  need  one? 

Lear.  O,  reason   not  the   need :    our  basest 
beggars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous  : 
Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's  :   thou  art  a  lady  ; 
If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous, 

425 


Act  II.] 

Why, 


KING  LEAR. 


[ScKNE    IV. 


nature  needs   not   what  thou  gorgeous 

wear'st, 
Which   scarcely   keeps   thee   warm. —  But,  for 

true  need, — 
You  heavens,  give  me  that  patience,  patience  I 

need ! 
You  see  me  here,  you  gods,  a  poor  old  man, 
As  full  of  grief  as  age  ;  wretched  in  both  ! 
If  it  be  you  that  stir  these  daughters'  hearts 
Against  their  father,  fool  me  not  so  much 
To  bear  it  tamely  ;  touch  me  with  noble  anger  ! 
And  let  not  women's  weapons,  water-drops, 
Stain   my  man's   cheeks ! — No,  you  unnatural 

hags, 
I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both. 
That  all  the  world  shall — I  will  do  such  things — 
What  they  are  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.     You  think  I'll  weep; 
No,  I  '11  not  weep  : — 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping ;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws,* 
Or  ere  I  '11  weep  : — O,  fool,  I  shall  go  mad ! 

\_Exeiint  Lear,  Gloster,  Kent,  mid  Fool. 
Corn.  Let  us  withdraw,  't  will  be  a  storm. 

[^Storm  heard  at  a  distance. 
Reg.  This  house  is  little ;  the  old  man  and  his 

people 
Cannot  be  well  bestow'd. 

Gon.  'T  is  his  own  blame  ;  hath  put  himself" 

from  rest, 

•  Flaw—T)ouce  conjectures  itioiflaw  might  signify  a  frag- 
ment in  Sliakspere's  time,  as  well  as  a  cracit. 
••  Hath  put  himself .  Tlie  pevscmal  in-ummn  /<e  isunderstooil. 


And  must  needs  taste  his  folly. 

Reg.  For  his  particular,  I'll  receive  him  gladly. 
But  not  one  follower. 

Gon.  So  am  I  purpos'd. 

Where  is  my  lord  of  Gloster  ? 

Re-enter  Gloster. 

Corn.  Follow'd  the  old  man  forth  : — he  is  re- 
turn'd. 
Glo.  The  king  is  in  high  rage. 
Corn.  "Whither  is  he  going? 

Glo.  He  calls  to  horse ;  but  will  I  know  not 

whither. 
Corn.  'T  is  best  to  give  him  way ;  he  leads 

himself. 
Gon.  My  lord,  entreat  him  by  no  means  to 

stay. 
Glo.  Alack,  the  night  comes  on,  and  the  high* 
winds 
Do  sorely  ruffle  ;  for  many  miles  about 
There  's  scarce  a  bush. 

Reg.  O,  sir,  to  wilful  men. 

The  injuries  that  they  themselves  procure 
Must  be  their  schoolmasters :  Shut  up  your  doors ; 
He  is  attended  with  a  desperate  train  ; 
And  what  they  may  incense  him  to,  being  apt 
To  have  his  ear  abus'd,  wisdom  bids  fear. 

Corn.  Shut  up  your  doors,  my  lord ;    't  is  a 
wild  night : 
My  Regan  counsels  well:  come  out  o'  the  storm. 

lExeunt. 

•  High — The  quartos  Henk. 


['  Sharp-tooth'd  unkindness,  like  a  vulture  hiTe.'] 


426 


[Sariim  Plain.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


'   ScENK   II  — '■  Goose,  if  I    had   you    vpuii    Sariim 
plain, 
I  'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to  Car/ie- 
lot." 

Drayton,  in  his  '  Poly-Olbion,'  has  the  following 
reference  to  the  Camelot  of  the  old  romances: — 

"  Like  Camelot,  what  place  was  ever  yet  renown'd  ? 
Whore,  as  at  Caeileon  olt,  he  kept  the  table  round, 
Most  famous  for  the  sports  at  Pentecost  so  long. 
From   whence  all  knightly  deeds  and  brave   achieve- 
ments sjirnng." 

Capell  has  a  mistaken  theory  that  Camelot  is  a 
name  for  Winchester,  one  of  the  places  where 
Artliur  held  his  Round  Table.  But  the  context  of 
Drayton's  poem  shows  us  that  Camelot  is  in  Somer- 
setsliire ;  and  the  original  illustrator  of  Drayton 
thus  describes  it: — "By  South-Cadbury  is  that 
Camelot;  a  hill  of  a  mile  compass  at  the  top,  four 
trenches  circling  it,  and  betwixt  every  of  them  an 
earthen  wall,  the  contents  of  it,  within,  about  twenty 
acres,  full  of  ruins  and  relics  of  old  buildings.  .  .  . 
Antique  report  makes  this  one  of  Arthur's  places 
of  his  Round  Table,  as  the  muse  here  sings."  llan- 
mer  tells  us  that  in  the  moors  near  Camelot  large 
quantities  of  geese  are  bred;  but  it  maybe  doubted 
whether  the  line,  "  I  'd  drive  ye  cackling  home  to 
Camelot,"  has  reference  to  this  fact.  Warburton 
supposes  that  some  proverbial  speech  in  the  old 
romances  of  Arthur  has  supplied  the  allusion,  of 
which  we  tliink,  there  is  little  doubt. 


"  Scene  III. — '•  The   couniry  ywen  me  proof  and 
pi'ecedent 
Of  Bedlam  beggitrx,"  &c. 

Harrison,  in  his  description  of  England,  pub- 
lished with  '  Holinslied's  Chronicle,'  gi.es,  upon 
the  whole,  the  most  minute  and  satisfactory  account 
of  the  state  of  society  in  England  in  Sliakspere's 
early  years.  Shakspere  probably  wrote  from  his 
own  observation  when  he  described  the 

"beggars,  who,  with  vowing  voices, 

Strike  in  their  numb'd  and  mortified  bare  arms 
Pins,  wooden  pricks,  nails,  sprigs  of  lOsemary." 

But  there  are  some  very  remarkable  similarities 
in  Harrison's  description;  and  the  whole  passage 
shows  us,  as  the  author  of  'The  Pictorial  History 
of  England' has  truly  said,  that  "the  merry  Eng- 
land of  the  days  of  Elizabeth  was,  in  some  respects, 
rather  a  terrible  country  to  live  in :" — 

"  Such  as  are  idle  beggars,  through  their  own 
default,  are  of  two  sorts,  and  contiime  their  estates 
either  by  casual  or  mere  voluntary  means :  those 
that  are  such  by  casual  means,  are  in  the  beginning 
justly  to  be  referred  either  to  the  first  or  second 
sort  of  poor  afore  mentioned  (the  poor  by  im- 
potency,  and  the  poor  by  casualty);  but,  degene- 
rating into  the  thriftless  sort,  they  do  what  they  can 
to  continue  their  misery,  and,  with  such  impediments 
as  they  have,  to  stray  and  wander  about,  as  creatures 
abhorring   all   labour    and   every   honest   exercise. 

427 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  II. 


Certes,  I  call  tliese  casual  means,  not  in  respect  of 
the  original  of  their  poverty,  but  of  the  continuance 
of  the  same,  from  whence  they  will  not  be  delivered, 
such  is  their  own  ungracious  lewdness  and  froward 
disposition.  The  voluntary  means  proceed  from 
outward  causes,  as  by  making  of  corrosives,  and 
applying  the  same  to  the  most  fleshy  parts  of  their 
bodies;  and  also  laying  of  ratsbane,  spearwort, 
crowfoot,  and  such  like,  into  their  whole  members, 
thereby  to  raise  pitiful  and  odious  sores,  and  move 
the  hearts  of  the  goers  by  such  places  where  they 
lie  to  yearn  at  tlieir  misery,  and  thereupon  bestow 
large  alms  upon  them.  How  artificially  they  beg, 
what  forcible  speech,  and  how  they  select  and 
choose  out  words  of  vehemency,  whereby  they  do 
in  manner  conjure  or  adjure  the  goer  by  to  pity 
their  cases,  I  pass  over  to  remember,  as  judging 
the  name  of  God  and  Christ  to  be  more  conversant 
in  the  mouths  of  none;  and  yet  the  presence  of  the 
Heavenly  Majesty  further  off  from  no  men  than 
from  this  ungracious  company. 

"  Unto  this  nest  is  another  sort  to  be  referred, 
more  sturdy  than  the  rest,  which,  having  sound  and 
perfect  limbs,  do  yet,  notwithstanding,  sometimes 
counterfeit  the  possession  of  all  sorts  of  diseases. 
Divers  times,  in  their  apparel  also,  they  will  be  like 
serving  men  or  labourers:  oftentimes  they  can  play 
the  mariners,  and  seek  for  ships  which  they  never 
lost.  But,  in  fine,  they  are  all  tliieves  and  caterpil- 
lars in  the  commonwealth,  and  by  the  word  of  God 
not  permitted  to  eat.sith  they  do  but  lick  the  sweat 
from  the  true  labourers'  brows,  and  bereave  the 
godly  poor  of  that  which  is  due  unto  them,  to 
maintain  their  excess,  consuming  the  charity  of 
well-disposed  people  bestowed  upon  tiiem,  after  a 
most  wicked  and  detestable  manner. 

"  It  is  not  yet  full  threescore  years  since  this 
trade  began;  but  how  it  hath  prospered  since  that 
time  it  is  easy  to  judge,  for  they  are  now  supposed, 
of  one  sex  and  another,  to  amount  unto  above 
10,000  persons,  as  I  have  heard  reported.  More- 
over, in  counterfeiting  the  Egyptian  rogues,  they 
have  devised  a  language  among  themselves,  which 
they  name  canting,  but  others  pedlar's  French,  a 
speech  compact  thirty  years  since  of  English  and 
a  great  number  of  odd  words  of  their  own  devising, 
without  all  order  or  reason ;  and  yet,  such  is  it  as 
none  but  themselves  are  able  to  understand.  The 
first  deviser  thereof  was  hanged  by  the  neck — a  just 
reward  no  doubt  for  his  deserts,  and  a  common  end 
to  all  of  that  profession.  A  gentleman  also  of  late 
hath  taken  great  pains  to  search  out  the  secret 
practices  of  this  ungracious  rabble;  and,  among 
other  things,  he  setteth  down  and  describeth  three- 
and-twenty  sorts  of  them,  whose  names  it  shall  not 
be  amiss  to  remember,  whereby  each  one  may  take 
occasion  to  read  and  know,  as  also  by  his  industry, 
what  wicked  people  they  are,  and  what  villainy  re- 
maineth  in  them. 

"  The  several  disorders  and  degrees  amongst  our 
idle  vagabonds: — 


5.  Wild  Rogues. 

6.  Priffgers,  or  Prancei's 

7.  Palliards. 

8.  Praters. 

9.  Abrams. 


10.  Freshwater   Mariners,   ( 

Whipjacks. 

11.  Dummerers. 

12.  Drunken  Tinkers. 

13.  Swaddlers,  or  Pedlers. 

14.  Jacksmen,  or  Patricoes. 


1.  Rufflers. 

2.  Upright  m  on 

428 


3.  Honkers,  or  Anglers 

4.  Hogues. 


Of  womenkind : — 

1.  Demanders  for  glimmer,      5    Walking  Mortes. 

or  fire.  6.  Dores. 

2.  Bandy-baskets.  7-  Delles. 

3.  Mortes.  8.  Kinching  Morb's. 

4.  Autem  Mortes.  9.  Kinching  Coves." 

The  "  Bedlam  beggars"  of  Shakspere  were  some- 
times real  lanatics,  and  sometimes  vagabonds 
affecting  their  pitiable  condition.  Mr.  D' Israeli,  in 
his  '  Curiosities  of  Literature,'  has  collected  some 
interesting  particulars  regarding  this  singular  race 
of  mendicants.  The  real  Bedlam  beggars  were  pro- 
bably out-pensioners  of  the  hospital,  never  danger- 
ous, and  seldom  mischievous.  Their  costume  is 
described  by  Handle  Holme  in  his  '  Academy  of 
Armoury;'  and  Decker,  in  his  '  English  Villainies,' 
has  noticed  the  impostors  personating  the  proper 
Bedlams,  who  wereknownby  the  name  of  Abraham- 
men.  In  one  of  Aubrey's  manuscript  papers*  we 
have  the  following  minute  description: — "  Till  the 
breaking  out  of  the  civil  wars,  Tom  o'Bedlams  did 
travel  about  the  country  ;  they  had  been  poor  dis- 
tracted men,  that  had  been  put  into  Bedlam,  where, 
recovering  some  soberness,  they  were  licentiated  to 
go  a  begging ;  i.  e.  they  had  on  their  left  arm  an 
armilla,  an  iron  ring  for  the  arm,  about  four  inches 
long,  as  printed  in  some  works.  They  could  not 
get  it  off;  they  wore  about  their  necks  a  great  horn 
of  an  ox  in  a  string  or  bawdry,  which,  when  they 
came  to  a  house,  they  did  wind,  and  they  put  the 
drink  given  to  them  into  this  horn,  whereto  they 
put  a  stopple.  Since  the  wars  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  seen  any  one  of  them."  The  great  horn  of 
an  ox,  into  which  the  Tom  o'Bedlams  put  their 
drink,  explains  a  passage  in  one  of  Edgar's  speeches, 
— "  Poor  Tom,  thy  horn  is  dry."     (Act  in.,  Sc.  vi.) 

After  the  description  of  the  Bedlam  beggars, 
Edgar  exclaims,  "  Poor  Turlygod  ! "  We  give 
an  interesting  note  on  this  subject  from  Douce. 
"  Warburton  would  read  Turlupin,  and  Hanmer 
Turlurn;  but  there  is  a  better  reason  for  rejecting 
both  these  termsthan  for  preferring  either ;  viz.  that 
Turlygood  is  the  corrupted  word  in  our  language. 
The  Turlupins  were  a  fanatical  sect  that  over-ran 
France,  Italy,  and  Germany,  in  the  tliirteenth  and 
fourteenth  centuries.  They  were  at  first  known  by 
the  names  of  Beghards  or  Beghins,  and  brethren 
and  sisters  of  the  free  spirit.  Their  manners  and 
appearance  exhibited  the  strongest  indications  of 
lunacy  and  distraction.  The  common  people  alone 
called  them  Turlupins;  a  name  which,  though  it 
has  excited  much  doubt  and  controversy,  seems  ob- 
viously to  be  connected  with  the  wolvish  bowlings 
which  these  people  in  all  probability  would  make 
when  influenced  by  their  religious  ravings.     Their 

•  MS.  Lansdowne,  226. 


KING  LEAR. 


subsequent  appellation  of  the  fraternity  of  poor 
men  might  have  been  the  cause  why  the  wandering 
rogues  called  Bedlam  beggars,  and  one  of  whom 
Edgar  personates,  assumed  or  obtained  the  title  of 
Turlupins  or  Turlygoods,  especially  if  their  mode 
of  asking  alms  was  accompanied  by  the  gesticula- 
tions of  madmen.  Turlupino  and  Turluru  are  old 
Italian  terms  for  a  fool  or  madman ;  and  the 
Flemings  had  a  proverb,  '  as  unfortunate  as  Tur- 
lupin  and  his  children.^  " 

"  Scene  IV. — "  Crif  to  if,  tiuncfe,  as  the  cockney 
ilul  to  the  eels.^'' 

In  the  ancient  ballad  of  '  The  Turnament  of 
Tottenham,'  printed  by  Percy  in  his  '  Reliques,' 
we  have  these  lines  : — 

•'  At  that  fest  they  wer  servyd  with  a  ryche  aray. 
Every  fjTe  and  fyve  had  a  cokenay." 

Percy,  in  his  Glossary,  sa}'s,  "  Cokenay  seems  to  be 
a  diminutive  for  cook;  from  the  Latin  coquinator, 
or  coquinarius.  The  meaning  seems  to  be,  that 
Every  five  and  five  had  a  cook  or  scullion  to 
attend  them."  Tyrwhitt  (Note  on  '  Canterbury 
Tales,'  verse  4206)  cites,  in  confirmation  of  this 
opinion,  a  line  from  '  Pierce  Plowman's  Visions' : — 

"  And  yet  I  say  by  my  soule,  I  have  uo  salt  bacon, 
Ne  noeokeney  hy  Cliriste  coloppes  to  make." 

If  Percy  and  Tyrwhitt  were  unquestionably  right, 
we  should  have  no  difficulty  in  explaining  that  the 
cockney  in  Shakspere  who  put  the  eels  "  i'  the  paste 
alive  "  was  a  cook  ;  and  this  indeed  seems  the  na- 
tural interpretation  of  the  term  from  the  context. 
But  Douce  maintains  that  the  cokenay  of  Pierce 
Plowman  and  the  Turnament  of  Tottenham,  was 
a  little  cock.  The  cockney,  then,  of  Lear's  fool 
maj'  be  the  Londoner,  who  bore  that  name  of  con- 
tempt before  the  time  of  Shakspere.  In  Twelfth 
Night  the  clown  says  "  I  am  afraid  this  great  lub- 
ber the  world  will  prove  a  cockney;"  and  Chaucer, 
in  his  '  Reve's  Tale,'  appears  to  employ  it  with  a 
similar  meaning : — 

"  And  when  this  jape  is  laid  another  day, 
I  shall  be  haldeu  a  daffe  or  a  cokenay." 

Fuller,  in  his  '  Worthies,'  gives  us  two  explanations 
of  the  term  : — 


"  1.  One  coaks'd  or  cocker'd,  made  a  wanton  or 
nestle-cock  of,  delicately  bred  and  brought  up,  so 
that,  when  grown  men  or  women,  they  can  endure 
no  hardship,  nor  comport  with  pains-taking. 

"  2.  One  utterly  ignorant  of  husbandry  and  hus- 
wifery,  such  as  is  practised  in  the  country,  so  that 
they  may  be  persuaded  anything  about  rural  commo- 
dities; and  the  original  thereof,  and  the  tale  of  the 
citizen's  son,  who  knew  not  the  language  of  the  cock, 
but  called  it  neighing,  is  commonly  known." 

The  tale  of  the  cock  neighing  is  gravely  given  bj' 
Minshieu  is  his  '  Guide  into  the  Tongues ;'  and  is 
repeated  in  succeeding  dictionaries.  Whatever  be 
the  origin,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  London  was 
anciently  known  by  the  name  of  Cockney.  Fuller 
says,  "  It  is  more  than  four  hundred  years  old ;  for, 
when  Hugh  Bigot  added  artificial  fortifications 
to  the  natural  strength  of  his  castle  at  Bungay,  in 
Suflfolk,  he  gave  out  this  rhyme,  therein  vaunting 
it  for  impregnable:  — 

■  Were  I  in  my  castle  of  Bnngey, 
Upon  the  river  of  Waveney, 
I  would  ne  care  for  the  King  of  Cockenev' — 
meaning  thereby  King  Henry  the  Second,  then 
peaceably  possessed  of  London,  whilst  some  other 
places  did  resist  him ;  though  afterwards  he  so 
humbled  this  Hugh,  that  he  was  fain,  with  large 
sums  of  money  and  pledges  for  his  loyalty,  to  re- 
redeem  this  his  castle  from  being  razed  to  the 
ground. "  Tyrwhitt  ingeniously  suggests  that  the 
author  of  these  rhymes,  "  in  calling  London  Cocke- 
ney,  might  possibly  allude  to  that  imaginary  country 
of  idleness  and  luxury  which  was  anciently  known 
by  the  name  of  Cokaigne,  or  Cocagne ;  a  name 
which  Hicks  has  shown  to  be  derived  from  Coquina. 
He  has  there  published  an  excellent  description  of 
the  country  of  Cokaigne,  in  old  English  verse,  but 
probably  translated  from  the  French.  At  least,  the 
French  have  had  the  same  fable  among  them,  for 
Boileau  plainly  alludes  to  it : — 

'  Paris  est  pour  un  riche  un  pais  de  Cocagne.' 
The  festival  of  Cocagna  at  Naples,   described  by 
Keysler,  appears  to  have  the  same  foundation.     It 
probably  commenced   under   the  Norman  govern- 
ment." 


429 


\^ 


[Scene  I.] 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  I.— A  Heath. 

A  storm  is  heard,  with  thunder  and  lightning. 
Enter  Kent  and  a  Gentleman,  meeting. 

Kent.  Who  's  there,  besides  foul  weather  ? 
Gent.  One  mhided  like  the  weather,  mostuii- 

quietly. 
Ke7it.  I  know  you.     Where  's  the  king  ? 
Gent.  Contending  with  the  fretful  elements  ; 
Bids  the  wind  blow  the  earth  into  the  sea, 
Or  swell  the  curled  waters  'bove  the  main,* 
That  things  might  change,  or  cease :   [tears  his 

white  hair ; 
Which  the  impetuous  blasts,  with  eyeless  rage, 
Catch  in  their  fury,  and  make  nothing  of: 
Strives  in  his  little  world  of  man  to  out-scorn 
The  to-and-fro-conflicting  wind  and  rain. 
This  night,  wherein  the  cub-drawn  bear  would 

couch. 
The  lion  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf 

*  The  jmtin  is  here  \iseil  for  thp  main  land. 
4.30 


Keep  their  fur  dry,  unbonneted  he  runs, 
And  bids  what  will  take  all."] 

Kent.  But  who  is  with  him  '.' 

Ge7it.  None  but  the  fool ;  who  labours  to  out- 
jest 
His  heart-strook  injuries. 

Kent.  Sir,  I  do  know  you ; 

And  dare,  upon  the  warrant  of  my  note,'' 
Commend  a  dear  thing  to  you.  There  is  division. 
Although  as  yet  the  face  of  it  be  cover'd 
With  mutual  cunning,  'twixt  Albany  and  Corn- 
wall ; 
Who  have  (as  who  have  not,  that  their  great 

stars 
Thron'd  and  set  high?)   servants,  who  seem  no 

less  ; 
Which  are  to  France  the  spies  and  speculations 
Intelligent  of  our  state  ;  what  hath  been  seen, 
Either  in  snuffs'^  and  packings  "^  of  the  dukes ; 

»  The  lines  in  bracliets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 
•>  Note — The  quartos  aif.     Nute  is  knowledge. 
'  Snujf's — dislikes.  ^  Puchingit — intrigues 


A<:t  111.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SOKNE   II. 


Or  the  hard  rein  which  botli  of  them  have  borne 
Against  the  old  kind  king  ;  or  something  deeper, 
Whereof,  perchance,  these  are  but  furnishings ; 
[But,  true  it  is,  from  France  there  comes  a  power 
Into  this  scatter'd  kingdom  ;  who  aheady. 
Wise  in  our  negligence,  have  secret  feet 
In  some  of  our  best  ports,  and  are  at  point 
To  show  their  open  banner. — Now  to  you : 
If  on  my  credit  you  dare  build  so  far 
To  make  your  speed  to  Dover,  you  shall  find 
Some  that  will  thank  you,  making  just  report 
Of  how  unnatural  and  bemadding  sorrow 
The  king  hath  cause  to  plain. 
I  am  a  gentleman  of  blood  and  breeding  ; 
And,  from  some  knowledge  and  assurance,  offer 
This  office  to  you.*] 

Gent.  I  will  talk  further  with  you. 

Kent.  No,  do  not. 

For  confirmation  that  I  am  much  more 
Than  my  out  wall,  open  this  purse,  and  take 
What  it  contains  :  If  you  shall  see  Cordelia, 
(As  fear  not  but  you  shall,)  show  her  this  ring ; 
And  she  will  tell  you  who  that  fellow  is 
That  yet  you  do  not  know.     Fye  on  this  storm! 
I  will  go  seek  the  king. 

Gent.  Give  me  your  hand:    Have  you  no 
more  to  say? 

Kent.  Few  words,  but  to  effect  more  than  all 
yet; 
That,  when  we  have  found  the  king,  (in  which 

your  pain 
That  way  ;  1 11  this  :)  he  that  first  lights  on  him. 
Holla  the  other.  [_Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  U.— Another  Part  of  the  Heath. 
Storm  continues. 

Enter  Lear  and  Fool. 

Lear.  Blow,  winds,**  and  crack  your  cheeks  ! 

rage!  blow! 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'dour  steeples,  drown'd  the 

cocks! 
You  sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt  couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunder-bolts, 
Singe  my  white  head!    And  thou,  all-shaking 

thunder. 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world  ! 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germens"^  spill  at  once, 
That  make  ingrateful  man  ! 

Fool.  O  nuncle,  court   holy-water  in   a  dry 

'  The  lines  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 
^  JVinds — The  quartos  wind. 
'  Oermcns— seeds  of  matter.     So  in  Macbeth : — 
"  the  sum 
Ot  na.t\iTe's  gcrmens  tumble  altogether." 


house  is  better  than  this  rain-water  out  o'  door. 
Good  nuncle,  in  ;  ask  thy  daughters'  blessing ; 
here  's  a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools. 
Lear.  Rumble  thybellyfull !  Spit,  fire  !  spout, 
rain  I 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters : 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness, 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children, 
You  owe  me  no  subscription  ;  then  let  fall 
Your  horrible  pleasure ;  here  I  stand,  your  slave, 
A  poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despis'd  old  man  : — 
But  yet  I  call  you  servile  ministers, 
That  will  with  two  pernicious  daughters  join  " 
Your  high  engender'd  battles,  'gainst  a  head 
So  old  and  white  as  this.     O!  O  !  'tis  foul ! 

Fool.  He  that  has  a  house  to  put  his  head  in, 
has  a  good  head-piece. 

The  cod-piece  that  will  house. 

Before  the  head  has  any, 
The  head  and  he  shall  louse  ; — 
So  beggars  marry  many. 

The  man  that  makes  his  toe 

What  he  his  heart  should  make, 

Shall  of  a  corn  cry  woe. 
And  turn  his  sleep  to  wake. 

— for  there  was  never  yet  fair  woman  but  she 
made  mouths  in  a  glass. 

Enter  Kent. 

Lear.  No,  I  will  be  the  pattern  of  all  patience, 
I  will  say  nothing. 
Kent.  Who  's  there  ? 

Fool.  Marry,  here  's  grace  and  a  cod-piece  : 
that 's  a  wise  man,  and  a  fool. 

Kent.  Alas,  sir,  are  you  here  ?  things  that  love 
night 
Love  not  such  nights  as  these ;    the  wrathful 

skies 
Gallow**  the  very  wanderers  of  the  dark. 
And  make  them  keep  their  caves:  since  I  was 

man, 
Such  sheets  of  fire,  such  bursts  of  horrid  thxmder. 
Such  groans  of  roaring  wind  and  rain,  I  never 
Remember  to  have  heard  :  man's  nature  cannot 

carry 
The  affliction,  nor  the  fear. 

Lear.  Let  the  great  gods, 

That  keep  this  dreadful  pudder<=  o'er  our  heads. 
Find  out  their  enemies  now.      Tremble,  thou 
wretch, 

•  The  quartos, — 

"  That  have  with  two  pernicious  daughters join'd." 

I"  Oattuw — scare. 

»  Pudder— This  is  always  modernized  into  pyfAer;  thes;ime 
word,  doubtless,  but  somewhat  vulgarized  by  the  change. 

431 


Act  in.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCKNKS    HI.,    IV. 


That  hast  within  thee  undivulged  crimes, 
Unwhipp'd  of  justice  :  Hide  thee,  thou  bloody 

hand ; 
Thou  perjur'd,  and  thou  simular*  of  virtue 
That  art  incestuous :  Caitiff,  to  pieces  shake, 
That  under  covert  and  convenient  seeming 
Hast  practis'd  on   man's   life! — Close  pent-up 

guilts, 
Rive  your  concealing  continents,  and  cry 
These  dreadful  summoners  grace. — I  am  a  man 
More  sinn'd  against  than  sinning. 

KeJit.  Alack,  bare-headed ! 

Gracious  my  lord,  hard  by  here  is  a  hovel ; 
Some  friendship  will  it  lend  you  'gainst  the  tem- 
pest; 
Repose  you  there :  while  I  to  this  hard  house, 
(More  harder  than  the  stones  whereof 't  is  rais'd: 
Which  even  but  now,  demanding  after  you, 
Denied  me  to  come  in,)  return  and  force 
Their  scanted  courtesy. 

Lear.  My  wits  begin  to  turn. — 

Come  on,  my  boy  :  How  dost,  my  boy?  Artcold? 
I  am  cold  myself. — Where  is  this  straw,  my  fel- 
low? 
The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange. 
And  can   make  vile   things  precious.      Come, 

yovir  hovel ; 
Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
That 's  sorry  yet  for  thee. 

Fool.  [Singing.]  He  that  has  and  a  little  tiny  wit,— 
With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, — 
Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  fit, 
Though  tlie  rain  it  raineth  every  day."" 

Lear.  True,    boy. — Come,   bring   us  to   this 
hovel.  {^Exeunt  Lear  and  Kent. 

Fool.  This  is  a  brave  night  to  cool  a  courte- 
zan.— 
I  '11  speak  a  prophecy  ere  I  go. 

When  priests  are  more  in  word  than  matter ; 

When  brewers  mar  their  malt  with  water ; 

When  nobles  are  their  tailors'  tutors ; 

No  heretics  burn'd,  but  wenches'  suitors ; 

When  every  case  in  law  is  right ; 

No  squire  in  debt,  nor  no  poor  knight ; 

When  slanders  do  not  live  in  tongues ; 

Nor  cutpurses  come  not  to  throngs ; 

When  usurers  tell  their  gold  i'  the  field ; 

And  bawds  and  whores  do  churches  build ; — 

•   Simular — counterfeit. — The  quartos   read  simular  man; 
but  simular  is  used  as  a  noun  by  writers  before  Shakspere. 

■•  This  snatch  of  a  song  is  an  adaptation  of  the  concluding 
song  in  Twelfth  Night : — 

"  When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy. 
With  heigh,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy. 

For  tlie  rain  it  raineth  every  day." 
The  quartos  omit  and  in  the  first  line,  and  have/ur  insteail 
of  though  in  the  fourth 

432 


Then  shall  the  realm  of  Albion 

Come  to  great  confusion. 

Then  comes  the  time,  who  lives  to  see  't, 

That  going  shall  be  us'd  with  feet.' 
This  prophecy  Merlin  shall  make  ;  for  I  live  be- 
fore his  time.  \_Exii. 

SCENE  in.— A  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Gloster  and  Edmund. 

Glo.  Alack,  alack,  Edmund,  I  like  not  this 
unnatural  dealing :  When  I  desired  their  leave 
that  I  might  pity  him,  they  took  from  me  the 
use  of  mine  own  house  ;  charged  me,  on  pain 
of  perpetual  displeasure,  neither  to  speak  of 
him,  entreat  for  him,  or  any  way  sustain  him. 

Edm.  Most  savage  and  unnatural! 

Glo.  Go  to ;  say  you  nothing  :  There  is  divi- 
sion between  the  dukes;  and  a  worse  matter 
than  that :  I  have  received  a  letter  this  night ; — 
'tis  dangerous  to  be  spoken; — I  have  lock'd 
the  letter  in  my  closet :  these  injuries  the  king 
now  bears  will  be  revenged  home  ;  there  is  part 
of  a  power  already  footed :  we  must  incline  to 
the  king.  I  will  look  "*  him,  and  privily  relieve 
him  :  go  you,  and  maintain  talk  with  the  duke, 
that  my  charity  be  not  of  him  perceived:  If  he 
ask  for  me,  I  am  ill,  and  gone  to  bed.  If  I  die 
for  it,  as  no  less  is  threatened  me,  the  king  my 
old  master  must  be  relieved.  There  is  strange 
things  toward,  Edmund;  pray  you,  be  careful. 

[Exit. 

Edm.  This  courtesy,  forbid  thee,  shall  the  duke 
Instantly  know  ;  and  of  that  letter  too : — 
This  seems  a  fair  deserving,  and  must  draw  me 
That  which  my  father  loses ;  no  less  than  all : 
The  )'ounger  rises,  when  the  old  doth  fall.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  PartoftheHeath,with  a  Hovel. 

Enter  Lear,  Kent,  and  Fool. 

Kent.  Here  is  the  place,  my  lord ;  good  my 
lord,  enter  : 
The  tyranny  of  the  open  night 's  too  rough 
For  nature  to  endure.  [Storm  still. 

Lear.  Let  me  alone. 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Wilt  break  my  heart? 

Kent.  I'd  rather  break  mine  own:  Good  my 
lord,  enter. 

Lear.  Thou  think'st  'tis  much,  that  this  con- 
tentious storm 

•  Loiih — The  quartos  sick. 


Ari    111.] 


KING  LKAK. 


[SrFNK   IV. 


Invades  us  to  tlie  skin  :  so  'tis  to  thee; 

But  where  the  greater  malady  is  fix'd, 

The  lesser  is  scarce  felt.    Thou'dst  shun  a  bear  : 

But  if  thy  flight  lay  toward  the  roaring »  sea, 

Thou'dst  meet  the  bear  i'  the  mouth.      When 

the  mind  's  free 
The  body  's  delicate  :  the  tempest  in  my  mind 
Doth  from  my  senses  take  all  feeling  else, 
Save  what  beats  there. — Filial  ingratitude  ! 
Is  it  not  as  this  mouth  should  tear  this  hand, 
For  lifting  food  to  't  ? — But  I  will  punish  home : — 
No,  I  will  weep  no  more. — In  such  a  night 
To  shut  me  out ! — Pour  on  ;  I  will  endure  : — 
In  such  a  night  as  this!   O  Regan,  Goneril ! — 
Your  old  kind  father,  whose  frank  heart  gave 

all,— 
O,  that  way  madness  lies ;  let  me  shun  that ; 
No  more  of  that, — 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  enter  here. 

Lear.  Prithee,  go  in  thyself;  seek  thine  own 

ease ; 
This  tempest  will  not  give  me  leave  to  ponder 
On  things  would  hurt  me  more. — But  I'll  go  in: 
In,  boy;  go  first. — [To  the  Fool.]    You  house- 
less poverty, — 
Nay,   get   thee   in.      I'll  pray,    and   then   I'll 

sleep. —  [Yoo\  goes  in. 

Poor  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are. 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm, 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides, 
Your  loop'd**  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend 

you 
From  seasons  such  as  these?     O,  I  have  ta'en 
Too  little  care  of  this  !     Take  physic,  pomp  ; 
Expose  thyself  to  feel  what  wretches  feel ; 
That  thou  may'st  shake  the  superflux  to  them. 
And  show  the  heavens  more  just. 

Edg.  [  Within.^  Fathom  and  half,  fathom  and 

half!  Poor  Tom ! 

\_The  Fool  runs  out  from  the  hovel. 
Fool.  Come   not   in    here,   nuncle,    hei'e's   a 

spirit. 
Help  me,  help  me  ! 
Kent.  Give  me  thy  hand. — Who  's  there  ? 
Fool.  A  spirit,  a  spirit ;  he  says  his  name  's 

poor  Tom. 
Kent.  What  art  thou  that  dost  grumble  there 

i'  the  straw? 
Come  forth. 

Enter  Edgar,  disguised  as  a  madman. 
Edg.  Away  !    the  foul   fiend  follows  me  ! — 

*  Ruaiing. — Two  of  tlie  quartos  read  raging. 
^  Loop' d— is  tlie  reading  of  the   quartos,— the    fulio  has 
lupp'd. 

Traokdies. — Vol..  1.         3  K 


Through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blow  the  winds. — 
Humph!  go  to  thy  bed  and  warm  thee.* 

Lear.  Didst  thou  give  all  to  thy  daughters?'' 
And  art  thou  come  to  this? 

Edg.  WHio  gives  any  thing  to  poor  Tom  ? 
whom  the  foul  fiend  hath  led  through  fire  and 
through  flame,  through  ford  and  whirlpool,  o'er 
bog  and  quagmire  ;  that  hath  laid  knives  under 
his  pillow,  and  halters  in  his  pew  ;  ^  set  ratsbane 
by  his  porridge ;  made  him  proud  of  heart,  to 
ride  on  a  bay  trotting-horse  over  four-inched 
bridges,  to  course  his  own  shadow  for  a  traitor  : 
— Bless  thy  five  wits !  Tom  's  a-cold. — O,  do  de, 
do  de,  do  de. — Bless  thee  from  whirlwinds,  star- 
blasting,  and  taking  !  •=  Do  poor  Tom  some  cha- 
rity, whom  the  foul  fiend  vexes  :  There  could  I 
have  him  now, — and  there, — and  there  again, 
and  there.  \_Storm  continues. 

Lear.  Have  his  daughters  brought  him  to  this 
pass? — 
Couldst   thou   save   nothing?       Wouldst    thou 
give  them  all  ? 

Fool.  Nay,  he  reserved  a  blanket,  else  we  had 
been  all  shamed. 

Lear.  Now,  all  the  plagues  that  in  the  pen- 
dulous air 
Hang   fated    o'er    men's   faults,   light   on   thy 
daughters ! 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear.  Death,    traitor !     nothing   could   have 
subdued  nature 
To  such  a  lowness,  but  his  unkind  daughters. — 
Is  it  the  fashion  that  discarded  fathers 
Should  have  thus  little  mercy  on  their  flesh  ? 
Judicious  punishment !  'twas  this  flesh  begot 
Those  pelican  daughters. 

Edg.  Pillicock  sat  on  pillicock-hill ; — 
Halloo,  halloo,  loo,  loo  ! 

Fool.  This  cold  night  will  turn  us  all  to  fools 
and  madmen. 

Edg.  Take  heed  o'  the  foul  fiend  :  Obey  thy 
parents  ;  keep  thy  word's  justice  ;  '^  swear  not ; 
commit  not  with  man's  sworn  spouse  ;  set  not 
thy  sweet  heart  on  proud  array  :  Tom 's  a-cold. 

Lear.  What  hast  thou  been  ? 

Edg.  A  serving-man,  ^  proud  in  heart  and 
mind  ;  that  curled  my  hair,  wore  gloves  in  my 

»  Tlie  quartos  give  this  speech  thus  :  "  Away,  the  foul  fiend 
follows  me,  through  the  sharp  hawthorn  blows  the  cold  wind, 
go  to  thy  cold  bed  and  «arm  thee." 

''  The  quartos  read, — 

"  Hast  thou  given  all  to  thy  tivo  daughters  ?  " 

'  Taking — malignant  influence. 

^  Iford's  justice.    The  quartos  read,  word  justly. 

*  A  seiving  man. — This  is  not  a  menial,  but  a.  serviint  in 
the  sense  in  which  it  is  used  in  Ihe  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona : — 

"  Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  hii,'h  a  servant." — 

433 


Arr  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCK.NF.  IV. 


cap,  served  tlie  lust  of  my  mistress's  heart,  and 
did  the  act  of  darkness  with  her  ;  swore  as  many 
oaths  as  I  spake  words,  and  broke  them  in  the 
sweet  face  of  heaven  :  one,  that  slept  in  the 
contriving  of  lust,  and  waked  to  do  it :  Wine 
loved  I  dearly ;  dice  dearly ;  and  in  woman 
out-paramoured  the  Turk  :  False  of  heart,  light 
of  ear,  bloody  of  hand  ;  hog  in  sloth,  fox  in 
stealth,  wolf  in  greediness,  dog  in  madness,  lion 
in  prey.  Let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes,  nor  the 
rustling  of  silks,  betray  thy  poor  heart  to  woman  : 
Keep  thy  foot  out  of  brothels,  thy  hand  out  of 
plackets,  thy  pen  from  lenders'  books,  and  defy 
the  foul  fiend. — Still  through  the  hawthorn 
blows  the  cold  wind :  Says  suum,  mun,  nonny, 
dolphin  my  boy,  boy,  Sesey  ;  *  let  him  trot  by. 
\_Storm  still  coiitinues. 

Lear.  Thou  wert  better  in  a  grave,  than  to 
answer  with  thy  uncovered  body  this  extremity 
of  the  skies. — Is  man  no  more  than  this  ?  Con- 
sider him  well :  Thou  owest  the  worm  no  silk, 
tlie  beast  no  hide,  the  sheep  no  wool,  the  cat  no 
perfume  : — Ha  !  here  's  three  of  us  are  sophisti- 
cated!— Thou  art  the  thing  itself:  imaccommo- 
dated  man  is  no  more  but  such  a  poor,  bare, 
forked  animal  as  thou  art. — Off,  off,  you  lend- 
ings  : — Come  ;  unbutton  here. — 

\_Teari)ig  off  his  clothes. 

Fool.  Prithee,  nuncle,  be  contented  ;  't  is  a 
naughty  night  to  swim  in. — Now  a  little  fire  in 
a  wild  field  were  like  an  old  lecher's  heart, — a 
small  spark,  all  the  rest  of  his  body  cold. — Look, 
here  comes  a  walking  fire. 

Edg.  This  is  the  foul  fiend  Flibbertigibbet :  he 
begins  at  cvnfew,  and  walks  till  the  first  cock;  he 
gives  the  web  and  the  pin,**  squints  the  eye,  and 
makes  the  hare-lip;  mildews  the  white  wheat, 
and  hurts  the  poor  creature  of  earth. 
Swithold  footed  thrice  the  old ;  <= 
He  met  the  night-mare,  and  her  nine-fold  ; 
Bid  her  alight, 
And  her  troth  plight, 
And,  aroint  thee,  witch,  aroint  thee  !  * 

■*  Sesey.  The  quartos  read  cease.  It  is  probably  the  same 
word  as  sessa.  which  is  used  by  Christopher  Sly  in  the 
Taming  of  the  Shrew.  We  give  tlie  whole  of  this  passage, 
which  is  probaVMy  meant  to  be  unintelligible,  according  to  the 
reading  of  the  folio.  The  quartos  have,  after  culdwind,  "  hay 
no  on  ny,  dolphin  my  boy,  my  boy,  cease,  let  liim  trot  l)y." 
Capell  has  a  theory  that  Edgar  feigns  himself  to  be  one  who 
is  talking  of  his  horses;  but  weave  inclined  to  think,  if  there 
be  any  meaning,  some  of  the  words  are  meant  as  an  imi- 
tation of  the  sound  of  the  rushing  wind,  and  that  "  let  him 
trot  by"  has  the  same  reference. 

^  The  iveb  and  the  pin.  Florio,  in  his  '  New  World  of 
Words'  (1611),  interprets  the  Italian  Cataratta  "  A  dimness 
of  sight  occasioned  by  humours  hardened  in  the  eyes,  called 
a  cataract,  or  a  pin  and  a  zveb." 

'  The  old. — The  tvold.  Spelman  writes.  Burton  upon  Olds 
— Swithuld. — The  reading  of  all  the  old  editions  is  an  abbre- 
viation of  Saint  JVilhuld,  which  is  tlie  modern  reading. 

434 


Kent.  How  fares  your  grace? 

Enter  Gloster,  witli  a  torch. 

Lear.  What  'she? 

Kent.  Who  's  there  ?     What  is 't  you  seek? 

Glo.  What  are  you  there  ?     Your  names  ? 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  ;  that  eats  the  swimming  frog, 
the  toad,  the  tadpole,  the  wall-newt,  and  the 
water ;  *  that  in  the  fury  of  his  heart,  when  the 
foul  fiend  rages,  eats  cow-dung  for  sallets ; 
swallows  the  old  rat,  and  the  ditch-dog  ;  drinks 
the  green  mantle  of  the  standing-pool ;  who  is 
whipped  from  ty thing  to  tything,*  and  stocked, 
punished,  and  imprisoned ;  who  hath  had  three 
suits  to  his  back,  six  shirts  to  his  body,  horse  to 
ride,  and  weapon  to  wear : 

But  mice,  and  rats,  and  such  small  deer. 

Have  been  Tom's  food  for  seven  long  year.'' 
Beware  my  follower : — Peace,  Smolkin  ;  peace, 
thou  fiend  ! 

Glo.  What,  hath  your  grace  no  better  com- 
pany? 

Edg.  The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman  ; 
Modo  he 's  call'd,  and  Mahu.  * 

Glo.  Our  flesh  and  blood,  my  lord,  is  grown 
so  vile, 
That  it  doth  hate  what  gets  it. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  's  a-cold. 

Glo.  Go  in  with  me  ;  my  duty  cannot  suffer 
To  obey  in  all  your  daughtei's'  hard  commands  ; 
Though  their  injunction  be  to  bar  my  doors. 
And  let  this  tyrannous  night  take  hold  upon  yoii ; 
Yet  have  I  ventur'd  to  come  seek  you  out. 
And  bring  you  where  both  fire  and  food  is  ready. 

Lear.  First    let  me  talk  with  this  philoso- 
pher : — 
What  is  the  cause  of  thunder? 

Kent.  Good  my  lord,  take  his  offer  ; 
Go  into  the  house. 

Lear.  I'll  talk  a  word  with  this  same  learned 
Theban : — 
What  is  your  study  ? 

Edg.  How  to  prevent  the  fiend,  and  to  kill 
vermin. 

Lear.  Let  me  ask  you  one  word  in  private. 

Kent.  Importune  him  once  more  to  go,  my 
lord  ; 
His  wits  begin  to  unsettle. 

Glo.  Can'st  thou  blame  him  ? 


"  The  wall-newt  and  the  tvater — that  is  the  wall-uewt  and 
the  water-newt.  It  is  the  same  form  of  construction  as  "  a 
wise  man  and  a  merry." 

^  These  hues  are  printed  as  a  triplet  in  the  folio  ;  but  the 
old  metrical  romance  of  Sir  Bevis  supplied  the  distich — 
"  Hats  and  mice,  and  such  small  deer. 
Was  his  meat  tliat  seven  year." 


Act   III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scenes  V  ,  VI. 


His  daughters  seek  his  death  : — Ah  !  that  good 

Kent  !— 
He   said  it  would   be    thus: — Poor  banish'd 

man ! — 
Thou  say'st  the  king  grows  mad  ;  I'll  tell  thee, 

friend, 
I  am  almost  mad  myself :  I  had  a  son. 
Now   outlaw 'd  from  my  blood  :  he  sought  my 

life, 
But  lately,  very  late ;  I  lov'd  him,  friend, — 
No  father  his  son  dearer  :  true  to  tell  thee, 

l_Sior7n  continues. 
The  grief  hath  craz'd  my  wits.  What  a  night  's 

this  ! 
I  do  beseech  your  grace, — 

Lear.  O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir. 

Noble  philosopher,  your  company. 
Edg.  Tom  's  a-cold. 
Glo.  In,  fellow,  there,  into  the  hovel  :  keep 

thee  warm. 
Lear.  Come,  let 's  in  all. 
Kent.  This  way,  my  lord. 

Lear.  With  him ; 

I  will  keep  still  with  my  philosopher. 
Kent.  Good  my  lord,  sooth  him  ;  let  him  take 

the  fellow. 
Glo.  Take  him  you  on. 
Kent.  Sirrah,  come  on  ;  go  along  with  us. 
Lear.  Come,  good  Athenian. 
Glo.  No  words,  no  words  : 

Hush. 

Edg.  Childe  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  came; 

His  word  was  still, — Fie,  foh,  and  fum, 

I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man.* 

\_Exeimt. 

SCENE  Y.—A  Rooyn  in  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Cornwall  and  Edmund. 

Corn.  I  will  have  my  revenge  ere  I  depart  his 
house. 

Edm.  How,  my  lord,  I  may  be  censured  that 
nature  thus  gives  way  to  loyalty,  something  fears 
me  to  think  of. 

Cor7i.  I  now  perceive  it  was  not  altogether 
your  brother's  evil  disposition  made  him  seek 
his  death  ;  but  a  provoking  merit,  set  a-work  by 
a  reproveable  badness  in  himself. 

Edm.  How  malicious  is   my  fortune,  that  I 

'  Capell  has  an  iii<;enious  note  to  sliow  that  Childe  Row- 
land was  the  Knijiht  Orlando  ;  that  the  lines  are  part  of  an 
old  ballad,  of  which  one  line  has  been  accidentally  omitted  ; 
and  that  we  should  read — 

"  Childe  Rowland  to  the  dark  tower  come, 
The  giant  ruar'd,  and  uut  he  run  ; 
His  word  was  siill — Fie,  foh,  and  fum, 
I  smell  the  blood  of  a  British  man." 


must  repent  to  be  just !  This  is  the  letter  whi(A 
he  spoke  of,  which  approves  him  an  intelligent 
party  to  the  advantages  of  France.  O  heavens! 
that  this  treason  were  not,  or  not  I  the  de- 
tector ! 

Corn.  Go  with  me  to  the  duchess. 

Edm.  If  the  matter  of  this  paper  be  certain, 
you  have  mighty  business  in  hand. 

Corn.  True  or  false,  it  hath  made  thee  earl  of 
Gloster.  Seek  out  where  thy  father  is,  that  he 
may  be  I'eady  for  our  apprehension. 

Edm.  [Aside.~\  If  I  find  him  comforting  the 
king,  it  will  stuff  his  suspicion  more  fully. — I 
will  persevere  in  my  course  of  loyalty,  though 
the  conflict  be  sore  between  that  and  my 
blood. 

Corn.  I  will  lay  trust  upon  thee  ;  and  thou 
shalt  find  a  dearer  father  in  my  love.    \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  \l.—A  Chamber  in  Out-building 
adjoining  the  Castle. 

Enter  Gloster  and  Kent. 

Glo.  Here  is  better  than  the  open  air  ;  take 
it  thankfully  :  I  will  piece  out  the  comfort  with 
what  addition  I  can  :  I  will  not  be  long  from 
you 

Kefit.  All  the  power  of  his  wits  has  given  way 
to  his  impatience  : — The  gods  reward  your  kind- 
ness !  [_Exit  Gloster. 

Enter  Lear,  Edgar,  and  Fool.'' 

Edg.  Frateretto  calls  me  ;  and  tells  me,  Nero 
is  an  angler  in  the  lake  of  darkness.  Pi"ay,  in- 
nocent, and  beware  the  foul  fiend. 

Fool.  Prithee,  nuncle,  tell  me,  whether  a  mad- 
man be  a  gentleman,  or  a  yeoman  ? 

Lear.  A  king,  a  king  ! 

Fool.  No  ;  he  's  a  yeoman,  that  has  a  gentle- 
man to  his  son ;  for  he  's  a  mad  yeoman  that 
sees  his  son  a  gentleman  before  him. 

Lear.  To  have  a  thousand  with  red  burning 
spits 
Come  hissing  ^  in  upon  them  : — 

\_Edg.  The  foul  fiend  bites  my  back. 

Fool.  He  's  mad  that  trusts  in  the  tameness 
of  a  wolf,  a  horse's  health,  a  boy's  love,  or  a 
whore's  oath. 

Lear.  It  shall  be  done,   I  will  arraign  them 
straight : — 


«  We  print  the  direction  for  the  entrances  of  the  characters 
as  in  the  folio.  In  the  modern  editions  they  are  all  brought 
in  when  the  scene  opens. 

••  Hhsing — This  is  ordinarily  printed  whizzing;  in  the  folio 
it  is  hizzing;  in  one  of  the  quartos,  hiszing. 

435 


III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


Gome,  sit  thou  here,  most  learned  justicer ; 

[7*0  Edgar. 
Thou,   sapient  sir,  sit  liere.     \_To  ike  Fool.] — 
Now,  ye  she  foxes  ! — 
Edff.  Look  where  she  stands  and  glares! — 
Wantonest  thou  eyes  at  trial,  madam  ?  " 

Come  o'er  the  bourn,  Bessy,  to  me  : '' — ^ 
Fool.     Her  boat  hath  a  leak, 

And  she  must  not  speak 
Why  she  dares  not  come  over  to  thee. 
Edg.  The  foul  fiend  haunts  poor  Tom  in  the 
voice  of    a   nightingale.      Hopdance   cries   in 
Tom's  belly  for    two   white   herrings.      Croak 
not,  black  angel  ;  I  have  no  food  for  thee. 
Kent.  How  do  you,  sir  ?     Stand  you  not  so 
amaz'd : 
Will  you  lie  down  and  rest  upon  the  cushions? 
Lear.  I'll  see  their  trial  first : — Bring  in  the 
evidence. — 
Thou  robed  man  of  justice,  take  thy  place ; — 

\_To  Edgar. 
And  thou,  his  yoke- fellow  of  equity, 

[To  the  Fool. 
Bench  by  his  side  : — You  are  of  the  commission. 
Sit  you  too.  [7o  Kent. 

Edff.  Let  us  deal  justly. 

Sleepest  or  wakest  thou  jolly  shepherd  ? 

Thy  sheep  be  in  the  corn  ; 
And  for  one  blast  of  thy  minikin  mouth. 
Thy  sheep  shall  take  no  harm. 
Pur !  the  cat  is  grey. 

Lear.  Arraign  her  first;  'tis  Goneril.  I  here 
take  my  oath  before  this  honourable  assembly, 
she  kicked  the  poor  king  her  father. 

Fool.  Come  hither,  mistress.  Is  your  name 
Goneril  ? 

Lear.  She  cannot  deny  it. 
Fool.  Cry  you  mercy,  I  took  you  for  a  joint- 
stool. 
Lear.  And    here  's  another,    whose    warp'd 
looks  proclaim 
What  store  her  heart  is   made   of. — Stop   her 

there  ! 
Arms,  arms,   sword,   fire ! — Corruption   in   the 

place ! 
False  justicer,  why  hast  thou  let  her  'scape  ?*^] 
Edff.   Bless  thy  five  wits  ! 

"  The  original  quartos  liave,  "  Look  wiiere  he  stands  and 
glares,  wantest  tliou  eyes,"  &c.  Tlieobald  altered  he  to  she, 
and  Seward  liappily  suggested  wantonest  fur  ivnntest.  Tlie 
text  of  the  quartos  is  so  exceedingly  corrupt,  that,  in  those 
passages  which  do  not  occur  in  the  lolio,  some  licence  of 
emendation  seems  warranted. 

*>  Come  over  the  bourn,  Bessy,  was  a  song  entered  in  the 
oooks  of  tlie  Stationers'  Company  in  1564. 

■=  This  wonderful  scene,  beginning  with  the  speech  of 
Edgar — "  The  foul  fiend  bites  my  back,"  and  ending  here, 
is  not  given  in  the  folio  (see  Introductory  Notice). 

436 


Kent.  O  pity ! — Sir,   where  is   the   patience 
now. 
That  you  so  oft  have  boasted  to  retain? 

Edff.  My   tears  begin    to   take   his  part  so 
much. 
They  '11  mar  my  counterfeiting.  [Aside. 

Lear.  The  little  dogs  and  all, 
Tray,   Blanch,  and  Sweet-heart,  see,  they  bark 
at  me. 
Edff.  Tom  will  throw  his  head  at  them: — 
Avaunt,  you  curs ! 
Be  thy  mouth  or  black  or  white, 
Tooth  that  poisons  if  it  bite ; 
Mastiff,  grey-hound,  mongrel  grim, 
Hound  or  spaniel,  brach  *  or  lym  ;  ^ 
Or  bobtail  tike,  <^  or  trundle-tail ;  "^ 
Tom  will  make  him  weep  and  wail : 
For,  with  throwing  thus  my  head. 
Dogs  leap  the  hatch,  and  all  are  fled. 
Do  de,  de  de.     Sese.     Come,  march  to  wakes 
and  fairs,  and  market-towns : — Poor  Tom,  thy 
horn  is  dry.^ 

Lear.  Then  let  them  anatomize  Regan ;  see 
what  breeds  about  her  heart :  Is  there  any 
cause  in  nature  that  makes  these  hard  hearts? — 
You,  sir,  I  entertain  for  one  of  my  hundred; 
only,  I  do  not  like  the  fashion  of  your  garments  : 
you  will  say  they  are  Persian  ;  but  let  them  be 
changed.  [To  Edgar. 

Kent.  Now,  good  my  lord,  lie  here,  and  rest 

awhile. 
Lear.  Make  no  noise,  make  no  noise;  draw 
the  curtains  :  So,  so  :  We  '11  go  to  supper  i'  the 
morning. 

Fool.  And  I'll  go  to  bed  at  noon. 

Re-enter  Gloster. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  friend  :  Where  is  the  king 

my  master? 
Kent.  Here,    sir ;   but  trouble  him   not,  his 

wits  are  gone. 
Glo.  Good  friend,  I  prithee  take  him  in  thy 
arms ; 
I  have  o'erheard  a  plot  of  death  upon  him : 
There  is  a  litter  ready  ;  lay  him  in  't. 
And  drive   toward  Dover,  friend,   where   thou 
shalt  meet 


*  Brach — a  female  harrier.     (See  note  on  Act  i.,  Sc.  iv.) 

*>  I,ym — limmer — learner — a  hunting  dog,  so  called  from 
the  leme  or  leach  in  which  he  was  held  till  he  was  let  slip. 

■^  Tihe,  according  to  Steevens,  was  the  Runic  word  for  a 
worthless  dog.     (See  Note  on  Henry  V.,  Act  ii.  Sc.  r.) 

rt  Trundle-tail — In  the  comedy  of  'A  Woman  killed  with 
Kindness'  (1617,>,  we  have,  "  your  dogs  are  trundle-tails 
and  curs." 


Act  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


Both  welcome  and   protection.     Take   up  thy 
master ; 

If  thou  should'st  dally  half  an  hour,  his  life, 

With  thine,  and  all  that  offer  to  defend  him, 

Stand  in  assured  loss  :  Take  up,  take  up  ; 

And  follow  me,  that  will  to  some  provision 

Give  thee  quick  conduct. 

\_Kent.  Oppressed  nature  sleeps : — 

Tliis  rest  might  yet   have  halm'd  thy  hroken 
senses. 

Which,  if  convenience  will  not  allow. 

Stand  in  hard  cure. — Come,  help  to  bear  thy 
master ; 

Thou  must  not  stay  behind.  [T'o  the  Fool. 

Glo.  Come,  come  away. 

\_Exeunt  Kent,  Gloster,  and  the  Fool, 
bearing  ojf  the  King. 
Edg.  When  we  oiu-  betters  see  bearing  our 
woes. 

We  scarcely  think  our  miseries  our  foes. 

Who  alone  suffers,  suffers  most  i'  the  mind ; 

Leaving  free  things,  and  happy  shows,  behind  : 

But  then  the  mind  much  sufferance  doth  o'er- 
skip, 

When  grief  hath  mates,    and  bearing   fellow- 
ship. 

How  light  and  portable  my  pain  seems  now, 

Wlien  that,  which  makes  me  bend,  makes  the 
king  bow  ; 

He  childed,  as  I  father'd ! — Tom,  away  : 

Mark  the  high  noises  :  and  thyself  bewray. 

When  false  opinion,  whose  Avrong  thoughts  de- 
file thee. 

In  thy  just  proof,  repeals,  and  reconciles  thee. 

What  will  hap  more   to-night,  safe   scape  the 
king  ! 

Lurk,  lurk."]  \_Exit. 

SCENE  VIL— ^  Room  in  Gloster's  Castle. 

Enter  Cornwall,  Regan,  Goneril,  Edmund, 
and  Servants. 

Corn.  Post  speedily  to  my  lord  your  husband; 
show  him  this  letter : — the  army  of  France  is 
landed  : — Seek  out  the  traitor  Gloster.** 

[_Exeimt  some  of  the  Servants. 

Reg.  Hang  him  instantly. 

Gon.  Pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Corn.  Leave  him  to  my  displeasure. — Ed- 
mund, keep  you  our  sister  company ;  the  re- 


»  The  lines  in  In'acUets  are  not  in  the  folio.  In  that  edition 
the  scene  ends  with  tlie  lines  spoken  by  Kent — 

"  Give  thee  q\uck  conduct,  come,  come  away  '" 

''  Trattuj-— the  quartos,  villain. 


venges  we  are  bound  to  take  upon  your  traitor- 
ous father  are  not  fit  for  your  beholding.  Advise 
the  duke,  where  you  are  going,  to  a  most  festi- 
nate  preparation ;  we  are  boimd  to  the  like. 
Our  posts  shall  be  swift,  and  intelligent  betwixt 
us.  Farewell,  dear  sister ; — farewell,  my  lord 
of  Gloster. 

Enter  Steward. 

How  now  ?     Where  's  the  king  ? 

Steiv.  My  lord  of  Gloster  hath  convey 'd  him 
hence : 
Some  five  or  six-and-thirty  of  his  knights, 
Hot  questrists  after  him,  met  him  at  gate  ; 
Who,  with  some  other  of  the  lord's  dependents, 
Are  gone  with  him  toward  Dover ;  where  they 

boast 
To  have  well-armed  friends. 

Cor7i.  Get  horses  for  your  mistress. 

Gon.  Fai'ewell,  sweet  lord,  and  sister. 

[^Exeunt  Goneril  r/«(^  Edmund. 
Corn.  Edmund,  farewell,— Go,  seek  the  trai- 
tor Gloster, 
Pinion  him  like  a  thief,  bring  him  before  us  : 

\_Exeimt  other  Servants. 
Though  well  we  may  not  pass  upon  his  life 
Without  the  form  of  justice,  yet  our  power 
Shall  do  a  courtesy  to  our  wrath,  which  men 
May  blame,  but  not   control.      Who  's   there  ? 
The  traitor? 

Re-enter  Servants,  tvilh  Gloster. 

Reg.  Ingrateful  fox  I   'tis  lie. 
Corn.  Bind  fast  his  corky  arms. 
Glo.  What  mean   your   graces? — Good    my 
friends,  consider 
You   are    my    guests :     do   me   no   foul   play, 
friends. 
Corn.  Bind  him,  I  say.     [Servants  hind  him. 
Reg.  Hard,  hard  :— O  filthy  traitor ! 

Glo.    Unmerciful     lady    as     you    are,    I'm 

none. 
Corn.  To  this  chair  bind  him  : — Villain,  thou 
shalt  find —    [Regan  plucks  his  beard. 
Glo.  By    the   kind   gods,   'tis   most   ignobly 
done 
To  pluck  me  by  the  beard. 

Reg.  So  white,  and  such  a  traitor ! 
Glo.  Naughty  lady, 

These  hairs,  which  thou  dost  ravish  from  my 

chin. 
Will   quicken,  and   accuse   thee:     I    am   your 

host; 
With  robbers'  hands,  my  hospitable  favours 
You  should  not  ruffle  thus.     What  will  you  do? 

437 


Am  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  VII. 


Corn.  Come,  sir,  what  letters  had  you   late 

from  France? 
Reg.  Be  simple-answer'd,  for  we  know  the 

truth. 
Com.  And  what  confederacy  have  you  with 
the  traitors 
Late  footed  in  the  kingdom  ? 

Reg.  To  whose  hands  have  you  sent  the  lu- 
natic king  ? 
Speak. 

Glo.  I  have  a  letter  guessingly  set  down, 
Which   came   from   one   that  's  of  a   neutral 

heart. 
And  not  from  one  oppos'd. 

Corn.  Cunning. 

Reg.  And  false. 

Corn.  Where  hast  thou  sent  the  king  ? 
Glo.  To  Dover. 

Reg.  Wherefore   to  Dover  ?     Wast  thou  not 

charg'd  at  peril — 
Cor7i.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ?     Let  him  answer 

that. 
Glo.  I  am  tied  to  the  stake,  and  I  must  stand 

the  course. 
Reg.  Wherefore  to  Dover  ? 
Glo.    Because    I    would   not  see    thy    cruel 
nails 
Pluck  out   his  poor  old  eyes;    nor   tliy  fierce 

sister 
In  his  anointed  flesh  stick  bearish  fangs. 
The  sea,  with  such  a  storm  as  his  bare  head 
In  hell-black  night  endur'd,  would  have  buoy'd 

up. 
And  quench'd  the  stelled  fires :  yet,  poor  old 

heart, 
He  holp  the  heavens  to  rain. 
If  wolves   had   at  thy  gate  howl'd  that  stern 

time. 
Thou  shouldst  have  said,  '  Good  porter,  turn  the 

key;' 
All  cruels  else  subscrib'd: — But  I  shall  see 
The    winged    vengeance    overtake   such   chil- 
dren. 
Corn.  See't  shalt  thou  never  : — Fellows,  hold 
the  chair : — 
Upon  these  eyes  of  thine  I'll  set  my  foot." 
Glo.    He  that    will  think  to  live  till   he  be 
old 
Give  me  some  help  :  O  ci'uel  I  O  ye  gods  I 
Reg.  One  side  will  mock  another;  the  other 

too. 
Corn.  If  you  see  vengeance, — 

^  We  omit  the  usual  stage  direction  at  this  place,  as  well 
as  a  subseijuent  stage  direcliou,  for  reasons  given  in  lUus 
t  rat  ion  7- 

438 


Serv.  Hold  your  hand,  my  lord  ; 

I  have  serv'd  you  ever  since  I  was  a  child; 
But  better  service  have  I  never  done  you 
Than  now  to  bid  you  hold. 

Reg.  How  now,  you  dog? 

Serv.    If  you  did  wear  a  beard  upon  your 

chin, 

I'd  shake    it   on  this   quarrel:    What   do   you 

mean  ? 

Coim.  My  villain  !    \_Draws,  and  runs  at  him. 

Serv.  Nay,  then  come  on,  and  take  the  chance 

of  anger. 
\^Drmvs.    They  fight.    CoRi^vr all  is  woimded. 
Reg.  Give  me  thy  sword. — [To  another  Ser- 
vant.]    A  peasant  stand  up  thus ! 
\_Snatches  a  sword,  comes  behind,  and  stabs 

him. 
Serv.  O,  I  am  slain ! — My  lord,  you  have  one 
eye  left 
To  see  some  mischief  on  him : — O  !  l_Dies. 

Corn.  Lest  it  see  more,  prevent  it : — Out,  vile 

jelly! 
AVhere  is  thy  lustre  now  ?  ^ 

Glo.  All  dark  and  comfortless. — Where  's  my 
son  Edmund? 
Edmund,  enkindle  all  the  sparks  of  nature, 
To  quit  this  horrid  act. 

Reg.  Out,  treacherous  villain  ! 

Thou    call'st    on    him     that    hates    thee :     it 

was  he 
That  made  the  overture  of  thy  treasons  to  us ; 
Who  is  too  good  to  pity  thee. 

Glo.  O  my  follies  ! 

Then  Edgar  was  abus'd. — 
Kind  gods,  forgive  me  that,  and  prosper  him ! 
Reg.  Go,  thrust  him  out  at  gates,  and  let  him 
smell 
His  way   to  Dover. — How 'st,  my  lord?    How 
look  j'ou? 
Corn.  I  have  receiv'd  a  hurt: — Follow  me, 
lady.— 
Turn  out  that    eyeless    villain  ;  —  throw    this 

slave 
Upon  the  dunghill. — Regan,  I  bleed  apace  : 
Untimely   comes    this    hurt:    Give    me    your 
arm. 
l^Exit   Cornwall,  led  6^  Regan; — Servants 

unbind  Gloster,  and  lead  him  out. 
[1    Serv.  I'll   never  care   what   wickedness 
I  do. 
If  this  man  come  to  good. 

2  Serv.  If  she  live  long. 

And,    in   the   end,    meet    the    old    course    of 

death, 
Women  will  all  turn  monsters. 


Act  III.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  VII. 


1  Serv.  Let 's  follow  the  old  earl,  and  get  the 

Bedlam 

To  lead  him  where  he  would;  his  roguish  mad- 
ness 

Allows  itself  to  anything. 

2  Serv.  Go  thou  ;   I  '11  fetch  some  flax,  and 

whites  of  eggs. 


To  apply  to  his  bleeding   face.     Now,  heaven 
help  him  !] " 

{^Exeunt  severally. 

•  Tlio  vassa;,'e  in  Inackets  is  omitted  in  the  folio;  in  which 
eiliticm  the  scene  concludes  with  the  line  of  Cornwall's 
sijeech  — 

"  Untimely  comes  this  hurt:  Give  me  your  arm." 


[•  This  ni^'hl  wherein  the  cub-drawn  bear  would  couch. 
The  lion,  and  the  belly-pinched  wolf.'] 


439 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


'  Scene  II. — "  Jf'hen  priests  are  more  in  word  than 
7natter,"  &c. 

This  prophecy  is  not  foaiid  in  the  quartos,  and  it 
was  therefore  somewhat  hastily  concluded  that  it 
was  an  interpolation  of  the  players.  It  is  founded 
upon  a  prophecy  in  Chaucer,  which  is  thus  quoted 
in  Puttenham's  '  Art  of  Poetry,'  1589  :— 

"  When  faith  fails  in  priestes  saws. 
And  lords'  hests  are  holilen  for  laws, 
And  robbery  is  tane  for  purchase, 
And  lechery  for  solace. 
Then  shall  the  realm  of  Albion 
Be  brought  to  great  confusion." 

Warburton  had  a  theory  that  the  lines  spoken  by 
the  Fool  contain  two  separate  prophecies; — that 
the  first  four  lines  are  a  satirical  description  of  the 
present  manners  as  future,  and  the  subsequent  six 
lines  a  description  of  future  manners,  which  the 
corruption  of  the  present  would  prevent  from  ever 
happening.  He  then  recommends  a  separation  of 
the  concluding  two  couplets  to  mark  this  distinc- 
tion. Capell  thinks  also  that  they  were  separate 
prophecies,  not  spoken  at  the  same  time,  but  on 
different  nights  of  the  play's  performance.  All 
this  appears  to  us  to  pass  by  the  real  object  of  the 
passage,  which,  by  the  jumble  of  ideas — the  con- 
fusion between  manners  that  existed,  and  manners 
that  might  exist  in  an  improved  state  of  society — 
were  calculated  to  bring  such  predictions  into  ridi- 
cule.    The  conclusion, — 

"  Then  comes  the  time,  who  lives  to  see  't. 
That  yoiDf;  shall  be  used  with  feet,'' — 

leaves  no  doubt  of  this.  Nor  was  tlie  introduction 
of  such  a  mock  prophecy  mere  idle  buffoonery. 
There  can  be  no  question,  from  the  statutes  that 
were  directed  against  these  stimulants  to  popular 
credulity,  that  tliey  were  considered  of  importance 
in  Sliakspere's  day.  Bacon's  essay  '  Of  Propliecies' 
shows  that  the  philosopher  gravely  denounced  what 
our  poet  pleasantly  ridiculed.  Bacon  did  not 
scruple  to  explain  a  prophecy  of  tliis  nature  in  a 
way  that  might  disarm  public  apprehension.  "  The 
trivial  propliecy  which  I  heard  when  I  was  a  child, 
and  Queen  Elizabeth  was  in  the  flower  of  her  years, 
was, 

"  When  hempe  is  spoune, 
England's  done;  " 

440 


wherel)y  it  was  generally  conceived  that,  after  the 
princes  had  reigned  which  had  the  principal  letters 
of  that  word  hempe  (which  were  Henry,  Edward, 
Mary,  Philip,  and  Elizabeth),  England  should 
come  to  utter  confusion ;  which,  thanks  be  to  God, 
is  verified  only  in  the  change  of  the  name ;  for 
that  the  king's  style  is  now  no  more  of  England 
but  of  Britain."  Bacon  adds,  "  My  judgment  is 
that  they  ought  all  to  be  despised,  and  ought  to 
serve  but  for  winter  talk  by  the  fireside :  though, 
when  I  say  despised,  I  mean  it  as  for  belief,  for 
otherwise,  the  spreading  or  publishing  of  them  is 
in  no  sort  to  be  despised,  for  they  have  done  much 
mischief;  and  I  see  many  severe  laws  made  to  sup- 
press them." 

^  Scene  IV. — "  That    hath    laid    knives    under    his 
pillow,'"  &c. 

The  feigned  madness  of  Edgar  assumes,  through- 
out, that  he  represented  a  demoniac.  His  first  ex- 
pression is,  "  Away  !  the  foul  fiend  follows  me;" 
and  in  this  and  tlie  subsequent  scenes  the  same  idea 
is  constantly  repeated.  "Who  gives  anything  to 
poor  Tom,  whom  the  foul  fiend  hath  led  through 
fire  and  through  flame'?" — "This  is  the  foul  fiend 
Flibbertigibbet;" — "Peace,  Smolkin,  peace,  thou 
foul  fiend ;"  "  The  foul  fiend  haunts  poor  Tom  in 
the  voice  of  a  nightingale."  Shakspere  has,  with 
wonderful  judgment,  put  language  in  the  mouth  of 
Edgar  that  was  in  some  degree  familiar  to  his  au- 
dience. In  the  year  1603,  Dr.  Samuel  Harsnet, 
afterwards  Archbishop  of  York,  published  a  very 
extraordinary  book,  entitled  '  A  Declaration  of 
Egregious  Popish  Impostures,  to  withdraw  the 
hearts  of  Her  Majesty's  subjects  from  their  alle- 
giance, under  the  pretence  of  casting  out  devils, 
practised  by  Edmunds,  alias  Weston,  a  Jesuit,  and 
divers  Romish  priests,  his  wicked  associates.' 
Warburton  thus  describes  tlie  circumstance  to 
which  this  work  refers: — "While  the  Spaniards 
were  preparing  their  armada  against  England,  the 
Jesuits  were  iiere  busy  at  work  to  promote  it  by 
making  converts.  One  method  they  employed  was 
to  dispossess  pretended  demoniacs,  by  which  arti- 
fice they  made  several  hundred  converts  amongst 
the  common  people.  The  principal  scene  of  this 
farce  was  laid  in  the  family  of  one  Mr.  Edmund 
Peckham,  a  Roman  Catholic,  where  Marwood,  a 


KING  LEAR. 


servant  of  Antony  Babington's(wlio  was  afterwards 
executed  for  treason),  Trayford,  an  attendant  upon 
Mr.  Peckliam,  and  Sarah  and  Friswood  Williams, 
and  Anne  Smith,  three  chambermaids  in  that  family, 
came  into  the  priests'  hands  for  cure.     But  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  patients  was  so  long  and  severe,  and 
the  priests  so  elate  and  careless  with  their  success, 
that  the  plot  was  discovered  on  the  confession  of 
the  parties  concerned,  and  the  contrivers  of  it  de- 
servedly punished."    AVhen  Edgar  says   that   the 
foul  fiend  "  hath  laid  knives  under  his  pillow,  and 
halters  in  his  pew,"  Shakspere  repeats  one  of  the 
circumstances  ol"  the  imposture  described  by  Hars- 
net : — "  This  examinant  further  saith,  that  one  Alex- 
ander, an   apothecary,   having   brought  with   him 
from   London  to  Denham  on  a  time  a  new  lialter 
and  two  blades  of  knives,  did  leave  the  same  upon 
tlie  gallery  floor  in  her  master's  house.     A  great 
search  was  made  in  the  house  to  know  how  the  said 
halter  and  knife-blades  came  thither,  till  Ma.  Mai- 
ny,  in    his  next  fit,  said  it  was  reported  that  the 
devil  laid  them  in  the  gallery,  that  some  of  those 
that  were  possessed  might  either  hang  themselves 
with  the  halter,  or  kill  themselves  with  the  blades." 
In  Harsnet  we  find  that  "  Fratiretto,  Fliberdigibbet, 
Hoberdidance,  Tocobatto,  were  four  devils  of  the 

round  or  morrice These  four  had  forty 

assistants  under  them,  as  themselves  do  confess." 
The  names  of  three  of  these  fiends  are  used  by  Mad 
Tom,  and  so  is  that  of  a  fourth,  Smallkin,  also 
mentioned  by  Harsnet.    When  he  says — 

"  The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gentleman; 
Modo  he 's  call'd,  and  Mahu  " — 

he  uses  names  which  are  also  found  in  Harsnet, 
where  Modo  was  called  the  prince  of  all  other 
devils.     (See  Hlustration  5.) 

^  Scene  IV. — "^roifit  thee,  witch,  aroint  thee." 

We  have  been  favoured  with  the  following  note, 
which  illustrates  this  passage,  and  that  in  Macbeth — 
"  Aroint  thee,  witch,  tlie  rump-fed  ronyon  cries  " — 

by  Mr.  T.  Rodd.  Our  readers  will  be  gratified  by 
the  very  happy  explanation  of  a  matter  wliich  has 
hitherto  been  perplexed  and  uncertain : — 

The  word  ar-oint  occurs  twice  in  Shakspeare,  and 
is  not  found  in  the  work  of  any  other  old  English 
author,  nor  is  it  contained  in  any  ancient  dic- 
tionary. It  has  l)een  supposed  that  it  is  printed 
by  mistake  for  avaunt,  and  some  commentators 
propose  to  read  a  rowan-tree,  that  tree  being  held 
as  a  charm  against  the  power  of  witches,  against 
whom  the  word  is  used.  Whoever  is  conversant 
with  the  details  of  seeing  a  work  through  the  print- 
ing-press will  be  satisfied  that  the  word  is  f/;-oi«/,  and 
that  it  was  well  understood  at  the  time.  Wnienever 
a  word  occurs  in  writing  which  is  not  understood 
by  the  compositor,  he  is  in  the  habit  of  print- 
ing in  its  place  some  word  nearest  in  appearance, 
no  matter  whether  it  makes  sense  of  the  passage  or 
not.  Now,  as  this  word  is  printed  the  same  in  all 
the  four  folios,  it  is  fair  to  presume  that  it  was 
Traoedies. — Vol,.  I.        3  L 


not  altogether  fallen  into  disuse,  even  in  1C85,  the 
date  of  the  latest  of  these  editions.  Richardson,  in 
his  Dictionary,  derives  it  from  Ronger,  and  says 
that  it  means,  be  thou  gnawed  ;  but  tiie  word  as  used 
in  Shakspeare  will  not  bear  this  interpretation. 

Under  this  uncertainty,  the  following  new  ety- 
mology of  the  word  is  proposed. 

It  is  conjectured  that  it  is  a  compound  ol  ar,  or 
uer,  and  hjnt :  the  first  a  very  ancient  word,  com- 
mon to  the  Greek  and  Gothic  languages  in  the 
sense  of  to  go;  the  second  derived  from  the  Gothic, 
and  still  in  common  use  under  the  same  form  and 
witii  the  same  meaning,  hind,  behind,  &c.,  in  Eng- 
lish, and  hint,  or  hi/nt,  in  German. 

In  support  of  this  derivation  of  the  word,  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  it  is  used  as  a  charm  against 
witches,  and  appears  to  have  had  a  powerful  effect, 
since  one  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth,  against  whom 
it  is  used,  acknowledges,  by  her  threats  of  ven- 
geance, its  efficacy ;  and  this  use  of  it  is  probably 
derived  from  the  remarkable  words  used  by  Christ 
on  two  occasions,  Markviii.  33,  Luke  iv.  8,  Get  thee 
behind  me,  Satan;  apparently  a  common  phrase 
among  the  Jews.  In  the  German  version  of  the 
Testament  by  Luther,  Luke  iv.  8,  is  rendered  hynt 
ar  me  thu  Saihanas.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  this 
text  may  have  been  adopted  into  the  forms  for 
exorcising  persons  supposed  to  be  possessed,  and 
thus  it  came  into  common  use. 

Dr.  Johnson  imagined  he  had  found  the  word 
used,  in  an  old  print  copied  by  Hearne  from  an  an- 
cient illumination  representing  the  harrowing  of 
hell.  The  devil  is  represented  as  blowing  a  horn, 
from  which  proceeds  the  word  urongt.  This  may 
be  intended  merely  to  express  by  letters  the  sounds 
from  the  horn  :  if  it  really  be  a  word,  it  is  probably 
arougt,  go  out, — the  print  representing  the  delivery 
of  the  damned  from  hell  by  Christ, — and  will  thus 
strengthen  our  conjecture.  The  word  aroint  ap- 
pears to  be  still  used  in  Cheshire,  in  the  same 
sense  as  by  Shakspeare.  In  W  ilbraham's  Glossary 
of  Cheshire  Words,  we  find  ry/it  used  by  the  milk- 
maid when  the  cow  will  not  stand  still — "  rgnt 
thee" — the  cow  evidently  being  supposed  to  be  be- 
witched. In  this  instance  the  a  is  either  dropped, 
or  is  expressed  by  giving  the  r  its  full  rough  sound, 
by  compressing  the  tongue  against  the  palate  when 
sounding  it. 

Another  Shakspearian  word,  baccare,  appears  to 
be  a  compound  apparently  derived  in  part  from  the 
same  root.  The  commentators  derive  it  from  the 
Italian,  but  without  giving  the  parent  word;  and  on 
searching  the  dictionary  of  that  language  no  such 
word  has  been  found.  The  word  was  in  common 
use  before  the  time  of  Shakspeare  ;  it  occurs  in  Hey- 
wood's  Proverbs,  and  also  in  the  old  interlude  of 
'  Ralf  Roister  Doister,'  by  Udall,  under  the  form  of 
a  proverbial  expression,  ^^Baccare,  quoth  Mortimer  to 
his  sow."  It  islongere  imported  words  get  intosuch 
common  use  as  to  become  adopted  by  the  common 
people  into  their  proverbial  and  familiar  phrases  ; 
and  it  is  much  to  be  doubted  whether,  at  the  time 
when  Heywood  wrote,  any  Italian  words  had  been 

441 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  III. 


introduced,  except  such  as  related  to  conimerce. 
There  can  be  no  doubt,  therefore,  tliat  the  word  is 
pure  Saxon, — back-are,  go  back, — in  which  sense  it 
is  used  by  Hey  wood,  Udall,  and  Shakspeare. 

The  word  baccare  has  been  previously  noticed, 
with  this  explanation,  in  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew, 
Act  11.,  Sc.  I. 

■•Scene  IV.— "  Whipped  from  tything  to  ti/thinj, 
and  stocked,  punished,  and  imprisoned." 
Shalvspeve,  with  that  unvarying  kindness  which  he 
exliibits  towards  wretched  and  oppressed  humanity, 
in  however  low  a  shape,  makes  us  here  feel  the 
cruelty  of  the  laws  which  in  his  days  were  en- 
forced, however  vainly,  for  the  suppression  of  men- 
dicancy. By  the  statutes  of  the  39th  Elizabeth 
(1597),  and  the  1st  of  James  I.  (1604),  the  severe 
penalties  of  former  Acts  were  somewhat  modified ; 
but  the  rogue,  vagabond,  or  sturdy  beggar,  was 
still  by  these  statutes  to  be  "stripped  naked,  from 
the  middle  upwards,  and  to  be  whipped  until  his 
body  was  bloody,  and  to  be  sent  from  parish  to 
parish,  the  next  straight  way  to  the  place  of  liis 
birth."  Harrison  has  described  the  previous  state 
of  the  law  with  his  characteristic  force  and  simpli- 
city, but  with  small  leaning  to  tlie  merciful  side : 
"  The  punishment  tliat  is  ordained  for  this  kind  of 
people  is  very  sharp,  and  yet  it  cannot  refrain 
them  from  their  gadding :  wherefore  the  end  must 
needs  be  martial  law  to  be  exercised  upon  them, 
as  upon  thieves,  robbers,  despisers  of  all  laws,  and 
enemies  to  the  common-wealth  and  welfare  of  the 
land.  Wliat  notable  robberies,  pilferies,  murders, 
rapes,  and  stealings  of  young  cliiklren,  burning, 
breaking  and  disfiguring  their  limbs  to  make  tliem 
pitiful  in  the  sight  of  the  people,  I  need  not  to 
rehearse :  but  for  their  idle  rogueing  about  the 
country,  the  law  ordaineth  this  manner  of  correc- 
tion. The  rogue  being  apprehended,  committed 
to  prison,  and  tried  in  tlie  next  assizes,  (whether 
they  be  of  gaol  delivery  or  sessions  of  the  peace,) 
if  he  happen  to  be  convicted  for  a  vagabond  either 
by  inquest  of  office  or  tlie  testimony  of  two  honest 
and  credilile  witnesses  upon  their  oaths,  he  is  then 
immediately  adjudged  to  be  grievously  whipped, 
and  burned  througii  the  gristle  of  the  right  ear 
with  a  hot  iron  of  the  compass  of  an  inch  about, 
as  a  manifestation  of  his  wicked  life,  and  due 
punisliment  received  for  the  same.  And  tliis  judg- 
ment is  to  be  executed  upon  him,  except  some  honest 
person  worth  five  pounds  in  the  queen's  books  in 
goods,  or  twenty  shillings  in  lands,  or  some  rich 
householder  to  be  allowed  by  the  justices,  will  be 
bound  in  recognizance  to  retain  him  in  liis  service 
for  one  whole  year.  If  he  be  taken  the  second 
time,  and  proved  to  liave  forsaken  his  said  service,  he 
shall  then  be  wliippi'd  again,  bored  likewise  through 
tlie  other  ear,  and  set  to  service  ;  from  whence  if 
he  depart  before  a  year  be  expired,  and  happen 
afterwards  to  be  attached  again,  he  is  condemned 
to  suffer  pains  of  death  as  a  felon  (except  before 
excepted),  without  benefit  of  clergy  or  sanctuary, 
as  by  the  statute  doth  appear." 
442 


•"'  Scene  IV. — "  The  prince  of  darkness  is  a  gent/e- 
man  ; 
Modo  he  's  called,  and  Mahu. 

In  a  previous  illustration  we  have  shown  that 
Modo  and  Mahu,  as  the  names  of  fiends,  occur  in 
Harsnet's'  Declaration  of  Popish  Impostures.'  There 
can  be  no  doubt,  we  think,  that  Shakspere  derived 
these  names,  as  well  as  others  which  Edgar  uses, 
from  this  book,  which,  from  its  nature,  must  have 
attracted  considerable  popular  attention.  But  it  is 
difficult  to  say  where  the  Jesuits,  whose  impostures 
Harsnet  describes,  found  tiie  strange  names  which 
they  bestow  upon  their  pretended  fiends.  Latimer, 
however,  mentions  Flibbertigibbet  in  his  Sermons. 
A  learned  and  ingenious  friend,  not  being  aware  of 
the  direct  source  from  which  the  names  of  Modo 
and  Mahu  were  derived  by  Shakspere,  has  pointed 
our  attention  to  a  remarkable  similarity  between 
these  names  and  the  Hebrew  words  signifying 
chaos  used  in  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis : — 

I  think  that  the  source  from  which  they  sprung 
is  the  second  verse  of  the  Bible — "  And  the  earth 
was  Tohu  and  Bohu"  (as  we  translate  it,  "without 
form  and  void  ").  These  words  were  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  used  proverbially :  thus  Cudworth's 
'  Intellectual  System,'  ch.  ii.,  sec.  ii. — "  With  De- 
mocritus  he  made  the  world,  not  the  offspring  of 
mind  and  understanding,  but  of  dark  senseless 
matter,  of  Tohu  and  Bohu,  or  confused  chaos;"  and 
again,  sec.  xvii.,  "Here  it  is  plain  that  all  is  Tohic 
and  Bohu — chaos  and  confusion."  It  is  worth  at- 
tention that,  in  that  strange  wild  philosophy  of 
Manichaeism,  the  evil  principle  is  the  same  as  chaos 
—tlie  Tohu  and  Bohu  of  the  Bible.  Take  the  fol- 
lowing remarkable  passage  : — "On  the  side  of  that 
bright  and  holy  land  was  the  deep  and  immense 
land  of  darkness,  wherein  dwelt  fiery  bodies,  pesti- 
lent races.  There  were  boundless  darknesses,  ema- 
nating from  the  same  nature,  countless  with  their 
progeny;  beyond  which  were  muddy  and  turbid 
waters,  with  their  inhabitants,  within  which  were 
horrible  and  vehement  winds,  with  their  princes  and 
producers." — Saint  Augustin — Puseifs  Translation. 

^  Scene  VI. — "  Cotne  o'er  the  bourn,  Bessy,  to  me." 

This  is  the  first  line  of  a  "  songe  betwene  the 
Queene's  Majestic  and  Englande,"  or  a  dialogue  in 
verse,  consisting  of  twenty-two  stanzas  of  six  lines 
each,  the  interlocutors  beitig  England  personified 
and  the  Queen  Elizabeth.  The  original  is  part  of  an 
exceedingly  rare,  if  not  unique,  collection,  in  black 
letter,  in  tlie  library  of  the  Society  of  Antiquaries, 
reprinted  in  the  '  Harleian  Miscellany,'  vol.  x., 
p.  260. 

In  a  volume  of  MS.  music  in  the  British  Museum 
is  a  three-part  song  (a  canon),  supposed  to  have 
been  written  in  the  time  of  Henry  A'lII.,  beginning 
as  the  above,  and  which  seems  to  be  a  version — or, 
possibly,  the  source — of  it.  The  music  is  in  the  old 
notation,  each  part  separate,  and  not  "in  score," 
as  erroneously  stated  in  the  index  to  the  volume. 


KING  LEAR. 


7  Scene  VII. — "  fVhere  is  thy  lustre  noic?" 
Of  the  scene  of  tearing  out  Gloster's  eyes,  Cole- 
ridge thus  speaks: — "I  will  not  disguise  my  con- 
viction that,  in  this  one  point,  the  tragic  in  this  play 
has  been  urged  heyond  the  outermost  mark  and 
tie  plus  tiltrd  o\'  \\\e  dramatic."  He  subsequently 
says,  "What  can  I  say  of  this  scene?    There  is  my 

reluctance  to  think  Sliakspere  wrong,  and  yet ." 

As  the  scene  stands  in  all  modern  editions,  it  is 
impossible  not  to  agree  witli  Coleridge.  The 
editors,  by  their  stage  directions,  have  led  us  to 
think  that  this  horrid  act  was  manifested  to  the 
sight  of  the  audience.  Tliey  say  "  Gloster  is  held 
down  in  his  chair,  while  Cornwall  plucks  out  one 
of  his  eyes,  and  sets  his  foot  on  it."  Again,  "Tears 
out  Gloster's  other  eye,  and  throws  it  on  the 
ground."  Nothing  of  these  directions  occurs  in  the 
original  editions,  and  we  have  therefore  rejected 
them  from  the  text.  But  if  it  can  be  shown  that 
the  act  was  to  be  imagined  and  not  seen  by  the 
spectators,  some  part  of  the  loathing  which  we  feel 
must  be  diminished.  In  an  Illustration  of  Othello, 
Act  v.,  we  have  shown  the  uses  of  the  "secondary 
stage,"  by  which  contrivance  "two  scenes  might 
be  played  which  could  be  wholly  comprehended, 
although  7iot  everything  in  the  smaller  frame  was 
expressly  and  evidently  seen."  We  have  also  re- 
ferred, in  that  Illustration,  to  Tieck's  argument, 
that  the  horrid  action  of  tearing  out  Gloster's  eyes 
did  not  take  place  on  the  stage  proper,  giving  a  por- 
tion of  the  note  of  that  eminent  German  critic. 
We  now  repeat  his  argument  at  length : — 

"  The  chair  (or  seat)  in  which  Gloster  is  bound 
is  the  same  which  stood  somewhat  elevated  in  the 
middle  of  the  scene,  and  from  which  Lear*  deli- 
vered his  first  speech.  This  little  theatre,  in  the 
midst,  was,  when  not  in  use,  concealed  by  a  cur- 
tain, which  was  again  withdrawn  when  necessary. 
Shakspere  has  therefore,  like  all  the  dramatists  of 
his  age,  fi-equently  two  scenes  at  one  and  the  same 
time.f     In  Henry  YIII.  the  nobles  stand  in  the 

*  This  was  incorrectly  printed,  he  has,  in  Othello. 

t  Massinger  has  some  strong  cases  in  point.  See  par- 
ticularly the  Virgin  Martyr  and  the  Great  Duke  of 
Florence. 


ante-chamber ;  the  curtain  is  withdrawn,  and  we 
are  in  the  chamber  of  the  king.  Thus  also,  when 
Cranmer  waits  in  tlie  ante-chamber,  the  curtain 
then  opens  to  the  council-chamljer.  We  have  liere 
this  advantage,  that,  by  the  pillars  which  divided 
this  little  central  theatre  from  the  proscenium  or 
proper  stage,  not  only  could  a  double  group  be 
presented,  but  it  could  be  partially  concealed  ;  and 
thus  two  scenes  might  be  played,  which  would  be 
wholly  compreliended,  althougli  not  everything  in 
the  smaller  frame  was  expressly  and  evidently 
seen.  Thus  Gloster  sat,  prol)ably  concealed,  and 
Cornwall,  near  him,  is  visil)le.  Regan  stands  he- 
low,  on  the  fore-stage,  but  close  to  Cornwall ;  and 
on  this  fore-stage  also  stand  tlie  servants.  Corn- 
wall, horribly  enough,  tears  Gloster's  eye  out  with 
his  hand;  but  we  do  not  directly  see  it,  for  some 
of  the  servants  who  hold  the  chair  stand  around, 
and  the  curtain  is  only  half-withdrawn  (for  it  di- 
vided on  each  side).  The  expression  which  Corn- 
wall uses  is  only  figurative,  and  it  is  certainly  not 
meant  that  the  act  of  treading  on  the  eye  is  actually 
done.  During  the  scornful  speeches  of  Cornwall  and 
Regan,  one  of  the  servants  runs  up  to  the  upper  stage 
and  wounds  Cornwall.  Regan,  who  is  below,  seizes 
a  sword  from  another  of  the  vassals,  and  stabs  him 
from  behind  while  he  is  yet  fighting.  The  groups 
are  all  in  motion,  and  become  more  concealed ; 
and,  while  the  attention  is  strongly  attracted  to  the 
bloody  scene,  Gloster  loses  his  second  eye.  We 
hear  Gloster's  complainings,  but  we  see  him  no 
more.  Thus  he  goes  off;  for  this  inner  stage  had 
also  its  place  of  exit.  Cornwall  and  Regan  come 
again  upon  the  proscenium,  and  go  off  on  the  side. 
The  servants  conclude  the  scene  with  some  reflec- 
tions. Tliis  I  imagine  to  be  the  course  of  the  ac- 
tion, and  through  this  the  horrors  of  the  scene 
become  somewhat  softened.  The  poet,  to  be  sure, 
trusted  much  to  the  strong  minds  of  his  friends,  who 
would  be  too  much  affected  by  the  fearfulness  of 
the  entire  representation  of  this  tragedy  to  be  inter- 
rupted by  single  events,  bloody  as  they  were ;  or, 
through  them,  to  be  frightened  back  from  their  con- 
ception of  the  whole." 


443 


«s>^ 


[Dover  Cliff.] 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. — An  open  country. 

Enter  Edgar. 

Edg.   Yet  better  thus,  and  known  to  be  con- 
temn'd, 
Than  still  contemn'd  and  flatter'd.  To  be  worst, 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune, 
Stands  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear: 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best ; 
Tlie  worst  returns  to  laughter.     Welcome,  then, 
Thou  unsubstantial  air  that  I  embrace  ! 
The  wi'etch  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst 
Owes  nothing  to   thy  blasts. — But  who  comes 
here  ? — 

Enter  Gloster,  led  hy  an  Old  Man. 

My  father,  poorly  led? — World,  world,  O  world  ! 
But  that  tliy  strange  mutations  make  us  hate 

tliee. 
Life  would  not  yield  to  age. 

Old  Man.  O  my  good  lord,  I  have  been  your 
tenant,  and  your  father's  tenant,  these  fourscore 
years. 

Glo.  Away,  get  thee  away ;  good  friend,  be 
gone : 
Thy  comforts  can  do  me  no  good  at  all, 
Thee  they  may  hurt. 
444 


Old  Man."  You  cannot  see  your  Avay. 

Glo.  I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no 
eyes  ; 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw  :  Full  oft  "t  is  seen 
Our  means  secure  us ; ''  and  our  mere  defects 
Prove  our  commodities. — O,  dear  son  Edgar, 
The  food  of  thy  abused  father's  wrath  ! 
Might  I  but  live  to  see  thee  in  my  touch, 
I  'd  say,  I  had  eyes  again ! 

Old  Man.  How  now  ?  Who  's  there  ? 

Edg.  \_Aside.'\  O  gods!  Who  is  't  can  say,  '  I 
am  at  the  worst  ? ' 
I  am  worse  than  e'er  I  was. 

Old  Man.  'T  is  poor  mad  Tom. 

Edg.  \_Aside.'\  And  worse  I  may  be  yet:  The 
worst  is  not 
So  long  as  we  can  say,  '  This  is  the  worst.' 

Old  Man.  Fellow,  where  goest? 

Glo.  Is  it  a  beggar-man  ? 

Old  Man.  Madman  and  beggar  too. 


"  The  quarto  here  iutroducos,  "  Alack,  sir  !" 
^'  Our  means  secure  us— so  all  the  olil  editions.  Pope 
changed  it  to  "our  mean  secures  us."  Mean  is  moderate 
condition,  of  which  means  miglit  have  been  used  as  the 
plural.  Jennens  tliinks  that  by  meana  may  perhaps  be  un- 
derstood mean  things.  We  believe  that  means  is  here  used 
only  in  the  common  sense  of  resources,  powers,  capacities. 
The  means,  such  as  we  possess,  are  our  securities,  and  fur- 
ther, our  mere  defects  prove  advantages. 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCF.NE    II. 


Glo.  He  has  some  reason,  else  he  could  not 
beg. 
I'  the  last  night's  storm  I  such  a  fellow  saw, 
Which  made  me  think  a  man  a  worm  :  my  son 
Came  then  into  my  mind  ;  and  yet  my  mind 
Was   then    scarce  friends   with   him:    I   have 

heard  more  since  : 
As  flies  to  wanton  boys  are  we  to  the  gods ; 
Thej'  kill  us  for  their  sport. 

Edg.  How  should  this  be  ? 

Bad  is  the  trade  that  must  play  fool  to  sorrow, 
Ang'ring  itself  and  others.  [Aside.'] — Bless  thee, 
master ! 

Glo.  Is  that  the  naked  fellow? 

Old  Man.  Ay,  my  lord. 

Glo.  Get  thee  away :  If,  for  my  sake. 
Thou  wilt  o'ertake  us,  hence  a  mile  or  twain, 
r   the  way   toward  Dover,   do   it   for   ancient 

love ; 
And  bring  some  covering  for  this  naked  soul. 
Which  I  '11  entreat  to  lead  me. 

Old  Man.  Alack,  sir,  he  's  mad. 

Glo.    'T  is  the   times'  plague,  when  madmen 
lead  the  blind. 
Do  as  I  bid  thee,  or  rather  do  thy  pleasure; 
Above  the  rest,  be  gone. 

Old  Man.  I  '11  bring  him  the  best  'parrel  that 
I  have, 
Come  on  't  what  will.  \_Exit. 

Glo.  Sirrah,  naked  fellow. 

Edg.  Poor  Tom  's  a-cold. — I  cannot  daub  it 
further.  [^Aside. 

Glo.  Come  hither,  fellow. 

Edg.  \_Aside.'\  And  yet  I  must. — Bless  thy 
sweet  eyes,  they  bleed. 

Glo.  Know'st  thou  the  way  to  Dover? 

Edg.  Both  stile  and  gate,  horse-way  and  foot- 
path. Poor  Tom  hath  been  scared  out  of  his  good 
wits  :  Bless  thee,  good  man's  son,"  fi-om  the  foul 
fiend !  [Five  fiends  have  been  in  poor  Tom  at 
once ;  of  lust,  as  Obidicut ;  Hohbididence,  prince 
of  dumbness ;  Malm,  of  stealing ;  Modo,  of 
miu-der;  Flibbertigibbet,  of  mopping  and  mowing; 
who  since  possesses  chamber-maids  and  waiting- 
women.     So,  bless  thee,  master."'] 

Glo.  Here,   take  this   purse,  you  whom  the 
heaven's  plagues 
Have  humbled  to  all  sti'okes  :  that  I  am  wretched. 
Makes  thee  the  happier : — Heavens,  deal  so  still ! 
Let  the  surperfluous  and  lust-dieted  man. 
That  slaves  j^our  ordinance,  that  will  not  see 
Because  he  does  not  feel,  feel  your  power  quickly  ; 
So  distribution  should  undo  excess, 

*  The  quartos — bless  the  goud  man . 

^  The  passage  \a  brackets  is  not  in  the  folio. 


And  each  man  have  enough. — Dost  thou  know 
Dover  ? 

Edg.  Ay,  master. 

Glo.  There  is  a  cliiF,  whose  high  and  bending 
head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confined  deep : ' 
Bring  me  but  to  the  very  brim  of  it. 
And  I  '11  repair  the  misery  thou  dost  bear 
With  something  rich  about  me :  from  that  place 
I  shall  no  leading  need. 

Edg.  Give  me  thy  arm  ; 

Poor  Tom  shall  lead  thee.  [^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Before  the  Duke  of  Albany's 
Palace. 

Enter  Goneril  and  Edmund;  Steward  meeting 
them. 

Gon.  Welcome,  my  lord  :  I  marvel,  our  mild 
husband 

Not  met  us  on  the  Avay: — Now,  where 's  )'our 
master  ? 
Stew.  Madam,    within;    but  never   man    so 
chang'd : 

I  told  him  of  the  army  that  was  landed  ; 

He  smil'd  at  it :  I  told  him,  you  were  coming  ; 

His   answer   was,    '  The   worse  :  '    of  Gloster's 
treachery. 

And  of  the  loyal  service  of  his  son, 

When  I  inform'd  him,  then  he  call'd  me  sot ; 

And  told  me,  I  had  turn'd  the  wrong  side  out: — 

What  most  he  should  dislike  seems  pleasant  to 
him ; 

What  like,  offensive. 

Gon.  Then  shall  you  go  no  further. 

\_To  Edmund. 

It  is  the  cowish  terror  of  his  spirit. 

That  dares  not  undertake  :  he  '11  not  feel  wrongs, 

Which  tie  him  to  an  answer ;  Our  wishes,  on  the 
way, 

May  prove  effects.     Back,  Edmund,  to  my  bro- 
ther ; 

Hasten  his  musters,  and  conduct  his  powers  : 

I  must  change  names"  at  home,  and  give  the  dis- 
taff 

Into  my  husband's  hands.      This  trusty  servant 

Shall  pass  between  us :  ere  long  you  are  like  to 
hear. 

If  you  dare  venture  in  your  own  behalf, 

A  mistress's  command.  Wear  this;  spare  speech  ; 
l^Giving  a  favour. 

Decline  your  head:  this  kiss,  if  it  dui'st  speak, 

Would  stretch  thy  spirits  up  into  the  air ; — 

Conceive,  and  fare  thee  well. 


•^  Names — the  quartos,  arms. 


445 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENF,    H. 


Edm.  Yours  in  the  ranks  of  death. 
Gon.  My  most  dear  Gloster  ! 

\_Exit  Edmund. 
O,  the  difference  of  man  and  man  ! 
To  thee  a  woman's  services  are  due  ; 
My  fool  usurps  my  body. " 

Stew.  Madam,  here  comes  my  lord. 

\_Exit  Steward. 

Elder  Albany. 

Gon.  I  have  been  worth  the  whistle.*" 
Alh.  O  Goneril ! 

You  are  not  wortli  the  dust  which  the  rude  wind 
Blows  in  your  face. — [I  fear  your  disposition: 
That  nature,  which  contemns  its  origin, 
Cannot  be  border'd  certain  in  itself ; 
She  that  herself  will  silver  and  disbranch 
From  her  material  sap,  perforce  must  wither. 
And  come  to  deadly  use. 

Gon.  No  more ;  the  text  is  foolish. 

Alb.  Wisdom  and  goodness  to  the  vile  seem 

vile  : 
Filths  savour  but  themselves.     What  have  you 

done  ? 
Tigers,  not  daughters,  what  have  youperform'd? 
A  father,  and  a  gracious  aged  man, 
Whose   reverence   even    the    head-lugg'd  bear 

would  lick. 
Most  barbarous,   most  degenerate !    have  you 

madded. 
Could  my  good  brother  suffer  you  to  do  it  ? 
A  man,  a  prince,  by  him  so  benefited  ? 
If  that  the  heavens  do  not  their  visible  spirits 
Send  quickly  down  to  tame  these  vile  offences, 
'T  will  come : 

Humanity  must  perforce  prey  on  itself, 
Like  monsters  of  the  deep.'^] 

Go7i.  Milk-liver'd  man ! 

Thatbear'st  a  cheek  for  blows,  a  head  for  wrongs ; 
Who  hast  not  in  thy  brows  an  eye  discerning 
Thine  honour   from   thy    suffering ;    [that  not 

know'st. 
Fools  do  those  villains  pity,  who  are  punish'd 
Ere  they  have  done  their  mischief.     Where's 

thy  drum  ? 
France  spreads  his  banners  in  our  noiseless  land; 
With  plimied  helm  thy  slayer  begins  threats  ; 
Whilst  thou,  a  moral  fool,  sit'st  still,  and  cry'st 
Alack !  why  does  he  so  ?'] 
Alb.  See  thyself,  devil ! 


"  Si>  tlie  folio.  One  of  the  quaitos,  a  fuol  usurps  my  bed; 
another,  my  fuol  usurps  my  head. 

^  In  one  oi'  Heywood's  Dialo!,'ues,  ve  have  the  pioveibial 
expression — "  It  is  a  poor  dog  lliat  isnotworlli  the  wliistling." 

"  The  passage  in  l)rackets  is  not  in  the  folio;  and  the  sub- 
sequent passages  in  braclcets  are  also  omitted  in  tliat  edition. 

446 


Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend 
So  horrid  as  in  woman. 

Gon.  O  vain  fool ! 

[Alb.    Thou  changed  and  self-cover'd  thing, 
for  shame, 
Be-monster  not  thy  feature.     Were  it  my  fitness 
To  let  tliese  liands  obey  my  blood. 
They  are  apt  enough  to  dislocate  and  tear 
Thy  flesh  and  bones : — Howe'er  thou  art  a  fiend, 
A  woman's  shape  doth  shield  thee. 

Gon.  Marry,  your  manliood  now  I — ] 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Alb.  What  news  ? 

Mess.  O,  my  good  lord,  the  duke  of  Cornwall 's 
dead: 
Slain  by  his  servant,  going  to  put  out 
The  other  eye  of  Gloster. 

Alb.  Gloster's  eyes ! 

Mess.  A  servant  that  he  bred,  thrill'd  with 
remorse, 
Oppos'd  against  the  act,  bending  his  sword 
To  his  gi-eat  master;  who,  thereat  enrag'd, 
Flew  on  him,  and  amongst  them  fell'd  him  dead : 
But  not  without  that  harmful  stroke  which  since 
Hath  pluck'd  him  after. 

Alb.  This  shows  you  ai'e  above. 

You  justicers,  that  these  our  nether  crimes 
So  speedily  can  venge! — but,  O,  poor  Gloster! 
Lost  he  his  other  eye ! 

Mess.  Both,  both,  my  lord. — 

This  letter,  madam,  craves  a  speedy  answer; 
'Tis  from  your  sister. 

Gon.   {_Aside.^   One  way  I  like  this  well ; 
But  being  widow,  and  my  Gloster  with  her. 
May  all  the  building  in  my  fancy  pluck 
Upon  my  hateful  life :  Another  way. 
The  news  is  not  so  tart. — I'll  read,  and  answer. 

[Exit. 

Alb.  Where  was  his  son,  when  they  did  take 
his  eyes? 

Mess.  Come  with  my  lady  hither. 

Alb.  He  is  not  here. 

Mess.  No,  my  good  lord;  I  met  him  back 
again. 

Alb.  Knows  he  the  wickedness? 

Mess.  Ay,  my  good  lord;  'twas  he  inform'd 
against  him  ; 
And   quit   the   house   on    purpose,    that  their 

punishment 
Might  have  the  freer  course. 

Alb.  Gloster,  I  live 

To  thank  thee  for  the  love  thou  show'dst  the  king. 
And  to  revenge  thine  eyes. — Come  hitlier,  friend ; 
Tell  me  what  more  thou  know'st.  [Exeunt. 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCKNFS  III.,  IV. 


[^  SCENE  III.— r//e  French  Camp,  near  Dover. 

Enter  Kent  and  a  Gentleman. 

Kent.  Why  the  king  of  France  is  so  suddenly 
gone  back  know  you  the  reason  ? 

Gent.  Something  he  left  imperfect  in  the 
state,  which  since  his  coming  forth  is  thouglit 
of;  wliich  imports  to  the  kingdom  so  much  fear 
and  danger,  that  his  personal  return  was  most 
I'equired,  and  necessary.^ 

Kent.  Who  hath  lie  left  behind  him  general? 
Gent.  TheMaresclial  of  France,  Monsieur  Le 

Far.<= 
Kent.  Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen  to 
any  demonstration  of  grief  ? 

Gent.  Ay,  sir,  she  took  them,  read  them  in  my 
presence ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  trill'd  down 
Her  delicate  cheek ;   it  seem'd  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  o'er  her. 

Kent.  O,  then  it  mov'd  her. 

Gent.  Not  to  a  rage  :  patience  and  sorrow 
strove 
Who  should  express  her  goodliest.     You  have 

seen 
Sunshine  and  rain  at  once :  her  smiles  and  tears 
Were  like  a  better  day  :  "*  Those  happy  smilets,* 
That  play'd  on  her  ripe  lip,  seem'd  not  to  know 
What  guests  were  in  her   eyes;    which  parted 

thence. 
As    pearls  from  diamonds  dropp'd. — In  brief, 

sorrow 
Would  be  a  rarity  most  belov'd,  if  all 
Could  so  become  it. 

Kent.  Made  she  no  verbal  question  ? 

Gent.  'Faith,  once,  or  twice,  she  heav'd  the 
name  of '  father' 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  press'd  her  heart; 
Cried,  '  Sisters;  sisters! — shame  of  ladies!   sis- 
ters ! 
Kent !  father !  sisters !  What  ?  i'  the  storm  ?  i'  the 
night  ? 


^  The  whole  of  this  scene  is  wanting  in  the  folio.  (See 
Introductory  Notice.) 

b  This  speech  is  printed  as  prose  in  the  original.  Toe 
modern  editors  have  regulated  it  into  hobbling  meti-e. 

<^  Monsieur  Le  Far — so  the  original  coj>ies.  In  modern 
editions  we  have  Monsieur  Le  Fer,  to  give  Steeveiis  an 
oppoituuity  of  girding  at  the  limited  knowledge  of  Shak- 
spLie  in  the  names  of  Frenchmen,  because  he  has  a  similar 
name  in  Ileury  V. 

^  Better  day. — This  is  the  modern  reading  ;  the  original  is 
better  irny.  Tieck  translates  the  passage,  ii-ere  like  a  spring 
day.  lu  the  French  translation  of  Letonrneur,  we  have, 
"  Vous  avez  vu  le  soleil  au  milieu  delapluie:  son  sourire 
et  ses  pleurs  oft'raient  I'image  d'un  jour  plus  doux  encore." 

^  Smj/ef*'.  — This  beautiful  diminutive  is  found  in  the  ori- 
ginal :  and  we  know  not  why  it  should  not  hold  its  place  in 
tlie  text. 


Let  pity  not  be  believed  !  ' — There  she  sliook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes, 
And  clamour  moisten'd : — then  away  she  started 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Kent.  It  is  the  stars. 

The  stars  above  us,  govern  our  conditions ; 
Else  one  self  mate  and  mate  could  not  beget 
Such  different  issues.     You  spoke  not  with  Iter 
since? 
Gent.  No. 

Kent.   Was  this  before  the  king  return'd? 
Gent.  No,  since. 

Kent.    Well,  sir:  The  poor  distress'd  Lear  is 
i'  the  town : 
Who  sometimes,  in  his  better  tune,  remembers 
What  we  are  come  about,  and  by  no  means 
Will  yield  to  see  his  daughter. 

Gent.  W'hy,  good  sir  ? 

Kent.  A  sovereign  shame  so  elbows  liim:  his 
own  unkindness, 
That  stripp'd  her  from  his  benediction,  turn'd 

her 
To  foreign  casualties,  gave  her  dear  rights 
To   his    dog    hearted   daughters, — these  things 

sting 
His  mind  so  venomously,  that  burning  shame 
Detains  him  from  Cordelia. 

Gent.  Alack,  poor  gentleman  ! 

Kettt.  Of  Albany's  and  Cornwall's  powers  you 

heard  not  ? 
Gent.  'Tis  so ;  they  are  afoot. 
Kent.  Well,  sir,  I  '11  bring  you  to  our  master, 
Lear, 
And  leave  you  to  attend  him  :  some  dear  cause* 
Will  in  concealment  wrap  me  up  awhile; 
When  I  am  known  aright,  you  shall  not  grieve 
Lending  me  this  acquaintance.     I  pray  you,  go 
Along  Avith  me.  lExennt.^ 

SCENE  lY.—The  same.     A  Tent. 

Enter  Cordelia,  Physician,  and  Soldiers. 

Cor.  Alack, 'tis  he;  why  he  was  met  even  now 
As  mad  as  thevex'd  sea:  singing  aloud; 
Crown'd  with  rank  fumiter,  and  fiUTow  weeds, 
With  harlocks,  hemlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn. — A  century  send  forth  ; 
Search  every  acre  in  the  high-grown  field, 
And  bi'ing  him  to  our  eye.     What  can  man's 
wisdom  \Exit  an  Officer. 

In  tlie  restoring  his  bereaved  sense? 
He  that  helps  him,  take  all  my  outward  worth. 

"  Dear  cause — important  business.  So  iu  Romeo  and  Juliet 
— "  dear  employment." 

447 


KING  LEAR. 


LSCKNKS   v.,   VI. 


Pli)/.  There  is  means,  madam : 
Our  foster -nurse  of  nature  is  repose, 
The  which  lie  lacks;  that  to  provoke  in  him, 
Are  many  simples  operative,  whose  power 
Will  close  the  eye  of  anguish. 

Cor.  All  bless' d  secrets, 

All  you  mipublish'd  virtues  of  the  earth. 
Spring  with  my  tears !  be  aidant,  and  remediate, 
In  the  good  man's  distress ! ' — Seek,  seek  for  him ; 
Lest  his  ungovern'd  rage  dissolve  the  life 
That  wants  the  means  to  lead  it. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  News,  madam : 

The  British  powers  are  marching  hitherward. 

Cor.    'Tis  known   before;     our  preparation 
stands 
In  expectation  of  them. — O  dear  father. 
It  is  thy  business  that  I  go  about; 
Therefore  great  France 

My  mourning,  and  important  tears,  hath  pitied. 
No  blown  ambition  doth  our  arms  incite, 
But  love,  dear  love,  and  our  ag'd  father's  right : 
Soon  may  I  hear  and  see  him !  \_Exeuiit. 

SCENE  Y.—A  Room  in  Gloster  s  Castle. 

Enter  Regan  and  Steward. 

Reg.  But  are  my  bi'other's  powers  set  forth  ? 

Steiv.  Ay,  madam. 

Recj.  Himself 

In  person  there? 

Stew.  Madam,  with  much  ado: 

Your  sister  is  the  better  soldier. 

Reg.  Lord  Ednnmd  spake  not  with  your  lord 
at  home  ? 

Steiv.  No,  madam. 

Reg.  What  might  import  my  sister's  letter  to 
him  ? 

Stezv.  I  know  not,  lady. 

Reg.  'Faith,   he  is  posted  hence   on  serious 
matter. 
It  was  great  ignorance,  Gloster's  eyes  being  out. 
To  let  him  live;  where  he  arrives  he  moves 
All  hearts  against  us;  Edmund,  I  think,  is  gone, 
In  pity  of  his  misery,  to  despatch 
His  nighted  life;  moreover,  to  descry 
The  strength  o'  the  enemy. 

Steiv.  I  must  needs  after  him,  madam,  with 
my  letter. 

Reg.  Our  troops  set  forth  to-morrow;    stay 
with  us ; 
The  ways  are  dangerous. 


'  Diatre'iS — su  ttie  i|ii:u'tos  ;  tlie  folio  has  desires. 

448 


Stew.  I  may  not,  madam  ; 

My  lady  charg'd  my  duty  in  this  business. 
Reg.  Why   should   she   write    to   Edmund? 
Might  not  you 
Transport  her  2>urposes  by  words?  Belike, 
Something — I  know  not  Avhat: — I  '11  love  thee 

much, 
Let  me  unseal  the  letter. 

Stew.  Madam,  I  had  rather — 

Reg.  I    know  your  lady   does  not   love  her 
husband ; 
I   am   sure   of  that:    and,   at   her   late    being 

here, 
She  gave  strange  oeiliads,  and  most  speaking 

looks 
To   noble    Edmund :    I  know   you   are   of  her 
bosom. 
Stew.  I,  madam? 

Reg.  I   speak  in  understanding;   you  are,   I 
know  it: 
Therefore,  I  do  advise  you,  take  this  note : 
My  lord  is  dead;  Edmund  and  I  have  talk'd; 
And  more  convenient  is  he  for  my  hand, 
Than     for    your    lady's:  —  You   may   gather 

more. 
If  you  do  find  him,  pray  you,  give  him  this; 
And  when  your  mistress  hears  thus  much  from 

you, 
I  pray,  desire  her  call  her  wisdom  to  her. 
So  fare  you  well. 

If  you  do  chance  to  hear  of  that  blind  traitor, 
Preferment  falls  on  him  that  cuts  him  off. 
Stew.  'Would  I  could  meet  him,  madam!   I 
would  show 
What  party  I  do  follow. 

Reg.  Fare  thee  well.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \I.—The  country  near  Dover. 

Enter  Gloster,  and  Edgar  dressed  like  a 
jjeasant. 

Glo.  When  shall  we  come  to  the  top  of  that 

same  hill  ? 
Edg.  You  do  climb  np  it  now :    look  how  we 

labour. 
Glo.  Methinks,  the  ground  is  even. 
Edg.  Horrible  steep : 

Hark,  do  you  hear  the  sea? 

Glo.  No,  truly. 

Edg.  Why,  then  your  other  senses  grow  im- 
perfect 
By  your  eyes'  anguish. 

Glo.  So  may  it  be,  indeed: 

Methinks  thy  voice  is  alter'd  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
In  better  phrase,  and  matter,  than  thou  didst. 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  VI. 


Edg.  Yoii  are  much  deceiv'd;  in  nothing  am 
I  chang'd, 
But  in  my  garments. 

Glo.  Methinks,  yovi  are  better  spoken. 

Edg.  Come  on,  sir ;  here 's  the  place ! — stand 
still. — How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low!  * 
The  crows,  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway 

air, 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles:  Half  way  down 
Hangs   one   that  gathers   samphire ;    dreadful 

trade  !^ 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head: 
The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice;  and  yon'  tall  anchoring  bark, 
Diminish'd  to  her  cock ;  ^  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  the  murmuring  surge. 
That  on  the  lumumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes. 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high  : — I  '11  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 

Glo.  Set  me  where  you  stand. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand :  you  are  now  within 
a  foot 
Of  the  extreme  verge :  for  all  beneath  the  moon 
Would  I  not  leap  upright. 

Glo.  Let  go  my  hand. 

Here,  friend,  is  another  purse;   in  it,  a  jewel 
Well  worth  a  poor  man's  taking:  Fairies,  and 

gods, 
Prosper  it  with  thee !   Go  thou  further  off; 
Bid  me  farewell,  and  let  me  hear  thee  going. 

Edg.  Now  fare  you  well,  good  sir. 

\_Seems  to  go. 

Glo.  With  all  my  heart. 

Edg.  Why  I  do  trifle  thus  with  his  despair. 
Is  done  to  cure  it. 

Glo.  O  you  mighty  gods ! 

This  world  I  do  renounce ;  and,  in  your  sights, 
Shake  patiently  my  great  aifliction  off: 
If  I  could  bear  it  longer,  and  not  fall 
To  quarrel  with  your  great  opposeless  wills. 
My  snuff,  and  loathed  part  of  nature,  should 
Burn  itself  out.    If  Edgar  live,  O,  bless  him  ! — 
Now,  fellow,  fare  thee  well. 

Edg.  Gone,  sir. ''     Farewell. — 

[Gloster  leaps,  and  falls  alo7ig. 
And  yet  I  know  not  how  conceit  may  rob 
The  treasury  of  life,  when  life  itself 


*  The  cocli  boat— The  "  anchoring  bark  "  has  a  small  boat 
towing,  and,  as  the  bark  was  diminished  to  a  cock,  the  cock 
was  a  buoy  "  almost  too  small  for  sight." 

t  Gone,  sir. — This  is  ordinarily  printed,  gone,  «V?  as  if 
Edgar  asked  Gloster  if  he  had  gone;  wliereas  Gloster  lias 
previously  told  him,  "  go  thou  farther  ofT;"  and,  when  Glos- 
ter again  speaks  to  him,  he  says,  g(nie,  sir. 


Tbaoedies. — Vol..  I. 


3  M 


Yields  to  the  theft :    Had  he  been  where  he 

thought. 
By  this  had  thought  been  past. — Alive  or  dead  ? 
Ho,  yovi  sir!  friend! — Hear  you,  sir? — speak! 
Thus  might  he  pass  indeed  : — Yet  he  revives  : 
What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Glo.  Away,  and  let  me  die. 

Edg.  Hadst  thou  been  aught  but  gossamer,  ■* 
feathers,  air. 
So  many  fathom  down  precipitating. 
Thou  hadst  shiver'd  like  an  egg:  but  thou  dost 

breathe ; 
Hast  heavy  substance;  bleed'st  not;  speak'st; 

art  sound. 
Ten  masts  at  each  "  make  not  the  altitude 
Which  thou  hast  perpendicularly  fell; 
Thy  life  's  a  miracle  :  Speak  yet  again. 

Glo.  But  have  I  fallen,  or  no? 

Edg.  From  the  dread  summit  of  this  chalky 
bourn : '' 
Look  up  a-height; — the  shrill-gorg'd  lark  so  far 
Cannot  be  seen  or  heard :   do  but  look  up. 

Glo.  Alack,  I  have  no  eyes. — 
Is  wretchedness  depriv'd  that  benefit. 
To  end  itself  by  death  ?  'Twas  yet  some  comfort, 
When  misery  could  beguile  the  tyrant's  rage. 
And  frusti-ate  his  proud  will. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  arm  : 

Up: — so; — How  is  't?  Feel  you  your  legs?  You 
stand. 

Glo.  Too  well,  too  well. 

Edg.  This  is  above  all  strangeness: 

Upon  the  crown  o'the  cliff",  what  thing  was  that 
Which  parted  from  you  ? 

Glo.  A  poor  unfortunate  beggar. 

Edg.  As  I  stood  here  below,  methought  his  eyes 
Were  two  full  moons;  he  had  a  thousand  noses, 
Horns  whelk'd,  and  wav'd  like  the  enridged'^  sea ; 


*  .(4<eac/i.— So  all  the  old  editions.  Ten  masts  at  each  may 
signify  each  placed  at  the  end  of  the  other.  Some  think, 
however,  that  there  is  a  slight  typographical  error,  and  that 
we  should  read  ten  masts  at  reach.  We  can  find  no  example 
of  a  similar  use  of  at  each;  and  yet  the  phrase  conveys  the 
meaning. 

b  Bomti.  In  a  previotis  passage,  "  Come  o'er  the  bourn, 
Bessy,  to  me,"  bourn  signifies  a  river;  and  so  in  the  '  Fairy 
Queen,'  (Book  ii..  Canto  vi..  Stanza  10) — 

"  My  little  boat  can  safely  pass  this  perilous  bourne." 
In  Milton's  '  Comus'  we  have — 

"  And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side." 
Here,  as  Warton  well  explains  the  word,  bourn  is  a  winding, 
deep,  and  narrow  valley,  with  a  rivukt  at  the  bottom.  Siicli 
a  spot  is  a  bourn  because  it  is  a  l)oundary —  a  natural 
division;  and  this  is  the  sense  in  which  a  river  is  called  a 
bourn-  The  "  chalky  bourn"  in  the  passage  before  ns  is.  in 
the  same  way,  the  chalky  boundary  of  England  towards 
France. 

'^  Enridged.  This  is  the  reading  of  the  quartos.  The  folio 
enraged.  Enridged  is  the  more  poetical  word,  and  Shak- 
spere  has  the  idea  in  his  Venus  and  Adonis, — 

"  Till  the  wild  waves  will  have  him  seen  no  more. 
Whose  ridges  with  the  meeting  clouds  contend." 

449 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENK  VI. 


It  was  some  fiend :  Therefore,  thou  happy  father, 
Think  tliat  the  clearest  gods,  who  make  them 

honoiu-s 
Of  men's  impossibilities,  have  preserv'd  thee. 

Glo.  I  do  remember  now:  henceforth  I '11  bear 
Affliction,  till  it  do  cry  out  itself. 
Enough,  enough,  and  die.   That  thing  you  speak 

of, 
I  took  it  for  a  man  ;  often  't  would  say, 
'  The  fiend,  the  fiend:'  he  led  me  to  that  place. 
Edg.  Bear  free  and  patient  thoughts. — But 

who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  IjEavi,  fa7itasticaUy  dressed  up  with 
Jlotvers. 

The  safer  sense  will  ne'er  accommodate 
His  master  thus. 

Lear.  No,   they  cannot  touch  me  for  coin- 
ing;'' 
I  am  the  king  himself. 

Edg.  O  thou  side-piercing  sight! 

Lear.  Nature  's  above  art  in  that  respect. — 
There 's  your  press-money.  That  fellow  handles 
his  bow  like  a  crow-keeper :  ^  draw  me  a  clothier's 
yard.'= — Look,  look,  a  mouse !  Peace,  peace ; — 
this  piece  of  toasted  cheese  will  do  't. — There  's 
my  gauntlet;  I'll  prove  it  on  a  giant. — Bring 
up  the  brown  bills.'' — O,  well  flown,  bird ! — i'  the 
clout,  i'  the  clout :  hewgh  ! — Give  the  word. 

Edg.  Sweet  marjoram. 

Lear.  Pass. 

Glo.  I  know  that  voice. 

Lear.  Ha !  Goner il ! — with  a  white  beard ! — 
They  flatter'd  me  like  a  dog;  and  told  me  I  had 
the  white  hairs  in  my  beard,  ere  the  black  ones 
were  there.  To  say  ay,  and  no,  to  everything 
I  said. — Ay  and  no  too  was  no  good  divinity. 
When  the  rain  came  to  wet  me  once,  and  the 
wind  to  make  me  chatter ;  when  the  thunder 
would  not  peace  at  my  bidding;  there  I  found 
them,  there  I  smelt  them  out.     Go  to,  they  are 


^  Fur  coining. — So  the  qiiartos. — The  ioWo  crying .  Tieek, 
to  our  surprise,  considers  the  rcadinf^  of  the  folio  right.  If 
we  follow  the  course  of  Lear's  thoughts  we  shall  see  that  he 
fancies  himself  a  kiug  at  the  head  of  his  army.  It  is  his 
prerogative  to  coin  money — "  they  cannot  touch  me  for  coin- 
ing." New  levies  are  brought  to  him — "  There's  your  press- 
money." 

*>  The  crow-heeppr  was  the  rustic  who  kept  crows  from 
corn  — one  unpractised  in  the  proper  use  of  the  bow.  Ascham, 
in  his  '  Toxophilus,'  thus  describes  one  who  "  handles  his 
bow  like  a  crow-keeper:"  "  Another  cowereth  down,  and 
layeth  out  his  buttocks  as  though  he  should  shoot  at  crows." 

'^  Draw  me  a  clothier's  yard— druw  like  a  famous  English 
archer, — the  archer  of  Chevy  Chase ; — 

"  An  arrow  of  a  cloth  yard  long 
Up  to  the  head  drew  he." 

d  Thehrownbills — billsforbillmen— theinfantry.  Marlowe 
uses  the  phrase  in  the  same  way  in  his  Edward  II.  :— 
"  Lo,  with  a  band  of  bowmen  and  of  pikes. 
Brown  bills,  and  tjirgetiers." 

450 


not  men  o'  their  words :  they  told  me   I    was 
every  thing ;  'tis  a  lie ;   I  am  not  ague-proof. 

Glo.  The  trick  of  that  voice  I  do  weU  remem- 
ber: 
Is't  not  the  king? 

Lear.  Ay,  every  inch  a  king : 

When  I  do  stare,  see,  how  the  subject  quakes. 
I  pardon  that  man's  life :  What  was  thy  cause? — 
Adultery? — 

Thou  shalt  not  die  :  Die  for  adultery !  No : 
The  wren  goes  to 't,  and  the  small  gilded  fly 
Does  lecher  in  my  sight. 

Let  copulation  thrive,  for  Gloster's  bastard  son 
Was  kinder  to  his  father,  than  my  daughters 
Got  'tween  the  lawful  sheets. 
To  't,  luxury,  pell-mell,  for  I  lack  soldiers. — 
Behold  yon'  simpering  dame. 
Whose  face  between  her  forks  presageth  snow ; 
That  minces  virtue,  and  does  shake  the  head 
To  hear  of  pleasure's  name ; 
The  fitchew,  nor  the  soiled  horse,  goes  to 't 
With  a  more  riotous  appetite." 
Down  from  the  waist  they  are  centaurs,  though 
women  all  above :  but  to  the  girdle  do  the  gods 
inherit,  beneath  is  all  the  fiends';  there  's  hell, 
there  's  darkness,  there  is  the  sulphurous   pit, 
burning,  scalding,  stench,  consumption; — Eye, 
fye,  fye!  pah;  pah!  Give  me  an  ounce  of  civet; 
good   apothecary,    sweeten ''   my    imagination : 
there 's  money  for  thee. 

Glo.  O  let  me  kiss  that  hand ! 

Lear.  Let  we  wipe  it  first ;  it  smells  of  mor- 
tality. 

Glo.  O  ruin'd  piece  of  nature !     This  great 
world 
Shall  so  wear  out  to  nought. — Dost  thou  know 
me? 

Lear.  I  remember  thine  eyes  well  enough. 
Dost  thou  squiny  at  me?  No,  do  thy  worst, 
blind  Cupid ;  I  '11  not  love. — Read  thou  this 
challenge ;  mark  but  the  penning  of  it. 

Glo.  Were  all  thy  letters  suns,  I  could  not 
see.  *= 

Edg.  I  would  not  take  this  from  report ; — it  is. 
And  my  heart  breaks  at  it. 

Lear.  Read. 

Glo.  What,  with  the  case  of  eyes  ? 

Lear.  O,  ho,  are  you  there  with  me?  No 
eyes  in  your  head,  nor  no  money  in  your  purse? 

"  These  words,  beginning,  hehnld  yon'  simpering  dnme,  .nre 
printed  as  prose  in  the  folio.  The  previous  lines  of  Lear's 
speech  are  metrically  arranged.  In  the  quarto  the  whole 
speech  is  given  as  prose.  We  doubt,  with  Maloue,  whether 
any  part  of  it  was  intended  for  metre. 

^  The  quartos,  to  siveelen. 

"  So  the  folio— the  quartos — 
"  Were  all  the  letters  suns,  I  could  not  see  one." 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  VI. 


Your  e)^es  are  in  a  heavy  case,  your  purse  in  a 
light:  Yet  you  see  how  this  world  goes. 

Glo.  I  see  it  feelingly. 

Lear.  What,  art  mad  ?  A  man  may  see  how 
this  world  goes,  with  no  eyes.  Look  with  thine 
ears :  see  how  yon'  justice  I'ails  upon  yon'  sim- 
ple thief.  Hark,  in  thine  ear:  Change  places; 
and,  handy- dandy,  which  is  the  justice,  which 
is  the  thief?  Thou  hast  seen  a  farmer's  dog 
bark  at  a  beggar? 

Glo.  Ay,  sir. 

Lear.  And  the  creatiu-e  run  from  the   cur  ? 
There  thou  might  'st  behold  the  great  image  of 
authority:  a  dog's  obeyed  in  office. — 
Thou  rascal  beadle,  hold  thy  bloody  hand : 
Why  dost  thou  lash  that  whore  ?  Strip  thine  own 

back; 
Thou  hotly  lust'st  to  use  her  in  that  kind 
For  which  thou  whipp'st  her.  The  usurer  hangs 

the  cozener. 
Through  tatter'd  clothes  small  vices  do  appear ; 
Robes  and  furr'd  gowns  hide  all.  Plate  *  sin  with 

gold. 
And  the  strong  lance  of  justice  hurtless  breaks; 
Arm  it  in  rags,  a  pigmy's  straw  doth  pierce  it. 
None  does  offend,  none,  I  say,  none  ;  I'll  able 

'em : 
Take  that  of  me,  my  friend,  who  have  the  power 
To  seal  the  accuser's  lips.     Get  thee  glass  eyes ; 
And,  like  a  scurvy  politician,  seem 
To  see  the  things  thou  dost  not. — Now,  now, 

now,  now ; 
Pull  off  my  boots  : — harder,  harder  ;  so, 

Edff.  O,  matter  and  impertinency  mix'd  ! 
Reason  in  madness ! 

Lear.  If  thou  wilt  weep  my  fortunes,  take  my 
eyes. 
I  know  thee  well  enough ;  thy  name  is  Gloster ; 
Thou  must  be  patient ;  we  came  crying  hither. 
Thou  know'st,  the  first  time  that  we  smell  the  air. 
We  wawl,  and  cry  : — I  will  preach  to  thee ; 
mark, 

Glo.  Alack,  alack  the  day ! 

Lear.  When  we  are  born,  we  cry,  that  we  are 
come 

To  this  great  stage   of  fools ; This  a  good 

block!—" 


"  Plate — the  oM  copies  read  place.  Tlie  correction,  which 
is  ingenious  and  valuable,  was  made  by  Pope. 

■i  This  a  (food  block !  Stcevens  conjectures  that,  when  Lear 
says"  I  will  preach  to  thee,"  and  begins  hissermon,  "  When 
we  are  bom,  we  cry,"  he  takes  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and,  turn- 
ing it  round,  dislikes  the  fashion  or  shape  of  it,  which  was 
theu  called  the  block.  He  then  sUirts  off,  by  association  with 
the  hat,  to  the  delicate  stratagem  of  shoeing  a  troop  of  horse 
with  felt.  Lord  Herbert,  in  liis  '  Life  of  Henry  VIII.,' de- 
scribes a  joust  at  wluch  Henry  was  present  in  France,  where 
horses  shod  with  felt  were  brought  into  a  marble  hall. 


It  were  a  delicate  stratagem,  to  shoe 
A  troop  of  horse  witli  felt :  I  '11  put  it  in  proof; 
And  when  I  have  stolen  upon  these  sons-in-law, 
Then,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kill,  kiU.^ 

Enter  a  Gentleman,  with  Attendants. 
Gent.  O,  here  he  is  ;  lay  hand  upon  him. — 
Sir, 
Your  most  dear  daughter — ■ 

Lear.  No  rescue  ?     What,  a  prisoner  ?     I  am 
even 
The  natural  fool  of  fortune. — Use  me  well ; 
You  shall  have  ransom.    Let  me  have  surgeons, 
I  am  cut  to  the  brains. 

Gent.  You  shall  have  anything. 

Lear.  No  seconds  ?  all  myself? 
Why,  this  would  make  a  man,  a  man  of  salt. 
To  use  his  eyes  for  garden  water-pots, 
[Ay,  and  for  laying  autumn's  dust. 

Gent.  Good  sir, — b] 

Lear.  I  will  die  bravely,  like  a  smug  <^  bride- 
groom ;  What  ? 
I  will  be  jovial ;  come,  come  ;  I  am  a  king. 
My  masters,  know  you  that  ? 

Geiit.  You  are  a  royal  one,  and  we  obey  you, 

Lear.  Then  there  's  life  in  't.     Come,  an  you 

get  it,  you  shall  get  it  by  running.    Sa,  sa,  sa,  sa. 

l^Exit  running  ;  Attendants /o/Zow. 

Gent.  A  sight  most  pitiful  in    the  meanest 

wretch  ; 

Past   speaking   of    in   a  king! — Thou   hast   a 

daughter. 
Who  redeems  nature  from  the  general  curse 
Which  twain  have  brought  her  to. 
Edg.  Hail,  gentle  sir, 

Gent.  Sir,  speed  you  :  What  's  your  will  ? 

Edg.  Do  you  hear  aught,  sir,  of  a  battle  to- 
ward ? 
Gent.  Most  sure,  and  vulgar  :  every  one  hears 
that, 
Which  can  distinguish  sound. 

Edg.  But,  by  your  favour, 

How  near 's  the  other  army  ? 

Gent.  Near,  and  on  speedy  foot ;  the  main 
descry 
Stands  on  the  hourly  thought. 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir :  that 's  all. 

Gent.  Though  that  the  queen  on  special  cause 
is  here. 
Her  army  is  mov'd  on, 

Edg.  I  thank  you,  sir.     [^Exit  Gent. 


"  Kill  was  the  ancient  word  of  onset  in  the  English  army, 
b  The  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  folio. 
<^  Smug. — This  epithet  is  not  found  in  the  quartos;  and  the 
modern  editors  therefore  tastelessly  omit  it. 

451 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


rScKNK   VII. 


Glo.  You  ever  gentle  gods,  take  my  breath 
from  me ; 
Let  not  my  worser  spirit  tempt  me  again 
To  die  before  you  please ! 

Edg.  Well  pray  you,  father. 

Glo.  Now,  good  sir,  what  are  you  ? 

Edg.  A  most  poor  man,  made  tame  to  for- 
tune's blows  ;  ■* 
Who,  by  the  art  of  known  and  feeling  sorrows. 
Am  pregnant  to  good  pity.    Give  me  your  hand, 
I  '11  lead  you  to  some  biding. 

Glo.  Hearty  thanks  : 

The  bounty  and  the  benizon  of  heaven 
To  boot,  and  boot ! 

Enter  Steward. 

Stew.  A  proclaim 'd  prize  I  Most  happy  ! 

That  eyeless  head  of  thine  was  fii'st  fram'd  flesh 
To   raise    my    fortunes. — Thou   old   unhappy 

traitor, 
Briefly  thyself  remember  : — The  sword  is  out 
That  must  destroy  thee. 

Glo.  Now  let  thy  friendly  hand 

Put  strength  enough  to  it.  [Edgar  opposes. 

Steiv.  Wherefore,  bold  peasant, 

Dar'st  thou  support  a  publish'd  traitor?  Hence  ; 
Lest  that  infection  of  his  fortune  take 
Like  hold  on  thee.     Let  go  his  arm. 

Edg.  Chill  not  let  go,    zir,   without  vurther 
'casion. 

Stew.  Let  go,  slave,  or  thou  diest. 

Edg.  Good  gentleman,  go  your  gait,  and  let 
poor  volk  pass.  And  ch'ud  ha'  been  zwagger'd 
out  of  my  life,  'twould  not  ha'  been  zo  long  as 
'tis  by  a  vortnight.  Nay,  come  not  near  th' 
old  man ;  keep  out,  che  vor'ye,  or  ise  try  whe- 
ther your  costard  or  my  hallow  ''  be  the  harder  : 
Ch'ill  be  plain  with  you. 

Stew.  Out,  dunghill ! 

Edg.  Ch'ill  pick  your  teeth,  zir  :  Come  ;  no 
matter  vor  your  foins. 

{They  fight ;  and  Edgar  knocks  him  down. 

Stew.  Slave,  thou  hast  slain  me:  —  Villain, 
take  my  purse  ; 
If  ever  thou  wilt  thrive,  bury  my  body  ; 
And  give  the  letters,  which  thou  find'st  about  me. 
To  Edmund  earl  of  Gloster  ;  seek  him  out 
Upon  the  English  *=  party  : — O,  untimely  death. 

{Dies. 

Edg.  I  know  thee  well :  A  serviceable  villain  ; 

^  To  fortune's  blows — the  quarto,  by. 

l>  Ba/iiiu)— the  quartos,  bat.  Grose,  in  liis  '  Proviucial 
Glossary,'  gives  balUno  as  a  north-country  word  for  pule. 
Edgar  is  speaking  the  Somersetshire  dialect. 

'^  English— so  the  folio ;  the  quartos,  British,  (See  Intro- 
ductory Notice.) 

452 


As  duteous  to  the  vices  of  thy  mistress. 
As  badness  would  desire. 

Glo.  What,  is  he  dead  ? 

Edg.  Sit  you  down,  father  ;  rest  you. — 
Let  's  see   these  pockets :    the   letters   that  he 

speaks  of. 
May  be  my  friends. — He  is  dead  ;   I  am  only 

sorry 
He  had  no  other  death's-man. — Let  us  see  : — 
Leave,  gentle  wax ;  and,  manners,  blame  us  not: 
To  know  our  enemies'  minds,  we  'd  rip    their 

hearts  ; 
Their  papers,  is  more  lawful. 

[Reads.']  '  Let  our  reciprocal  vows  be  remembered.  You 
have  many  opportunities  to  cut  him  off;  if  your  will  want 
not,  time  and  place  will  be  fruitfully  offered.  There  is  no- 
thing done,  if  he  return  the  conqueror;  then  am  I  the  pri- 
soner, and  his  bed  my  gaol;  from  the  loathed  warmth 
whereof  deliver  me,  and  supply  the  place  for  your  labour. 
'  Your  (wife,  so  I  would  say)  affectionate  servant,^ 

'  GONERIL.' 

O  undistinguish'd  space  of  woman's  will! — 

A  plot  upon  her  virtuous  husband's  life  ; 

And  the  exchange,  my  brother! — Here,  in  the 

sands. 
Thee  I'll  rake  up,  the  post  unsanctified 
Of  murtherous  lechers ;  and,  in  the  mature  time, 
With  this  ungracious  paper  strike  the  sight 
Of  the  death- practis'd  duke  :  For  him  'tis  well, 
That  of  thy  death  and  business  I  can  tell. 

{Exit  Edgar,  dragging  out  the  body. 
Glo.  The  king  is  mad  :  How  stiff"  is  my  vile 

sense, 
That  I  stand  up,  and  have  ingenious  feeling 
Of  my  huge  sorrows !     Better  I  were  distract : 
So   should   my  thoughts  be   sever'd  from  my 

griefs ; 
And  woes,  by  wrong  imaginations  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves. 

Re-enter  Edgar. 

Edg.  Give  me  your  hand  ; 

Far  oflT,  methinks,  I  hear  the  beaten  drum. 
Come,  father,  I  '11  bestow  you  with  a  friend. 

{Exeimt. 

SCENE  VII.— ^  Te7it  in  the  French  Camp. 
Lear  on  a  Bed,  asleep  ;  Physician,  Gentle- 
men, atid  others,  attending. 

Enter  Cordelia  and  Kent. 

Cor.  O  thou  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live  and 
work, 

"  We  print  this  subscription  as  in  the  folio.     It  is  ordi- 
narily given  thus : — 

"  Your  wife  (so  I  would  .say),  and  your 

affectionate  servant." 


AOT  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCKNK    Vll 


To  match  thy  goodness  ?     Mj'  life  will  be  too 

short, 
And  every  measure  fail  me. 

Kent.  To  be  acknowledg'd,  madam,  is  o'er- 
paid. 
All  my  reports  go  with  the  modest  truth; 
Nor  more,  nor  clipp'd,  but  so. 

Cor.  Be  better  suited  :  ° 

These   weeds   are   memories   of    those   worser 

hours ; 
I  prithee  put  them  off. 

Kent.  Pardon,  dear  madam  : 

Yet  to  be  known  shortens  my  made  intent : 
My  boon  I  make  it  that  you  know  me  not. 
Till  time  and  I  think  meet. 

Cor,  Then   be  it   so,  my  good   lord. — How 
does  the  king?  [  To  the  Physician. 

Pliys.  Madam,  sleeps  still. 
Cor.  O  you  kind  gods, 
Cure  this  great  breach  in  his  abused  nature  ! 
The  untun'd  and  jarring  senses,  O,  wind  up, 
Of  this  child-changed  father ! 

Phys.  So  please  your  majesty, 

That  we  may  wake  the  king  ?    he  hath   slept 
long. 
Cor.  Be  govern'd  by  your  knowledge,   and 
proceed 
r  the  sway  of  your  own  will.     Is  he  array'd  ? 

Geiit.   Ay,  madam  ;  in  the  heaviness  of  sleep. 
We  put  fresh  garments  on  him. 

Phys.  Be  by,  good  madam,  when  we  do  awake 
him  ; 
I  doubt  not  of  his  temperance. 

l^Cor.  Very  well. 

Phys.  Please  you,  draw  near. — Louder    the 

music  there.''] 
Cor.  O  my  dear  father !     Restoi'ation  hang 
Thy  medicine  on  my  lips  ;  and  let  this  kiss 
Repair  those  violent  harms,  that  my  two  sisters 
Have  in  thy  reverence  made! 

Kent.  Kind  and  dear  princess! 

Cor.  Had  you  not  been   their  father,  these 
white  flakes 
Had  challeng'd  pity  of  them.     Was  this  a  face 
To  be  oppos'd  against  the  jarring "=  winds? 
[To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thun- 
der; 
In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 
Of    quick,    cross-lightning?    to     watch     (poor 

perdu!) 
With  this  thin  helm?]  **     Mine  enemy's  dog, 

^  Su'ted — clotiied. 

*>  The  lines  in  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 
"=  Oppos'd  against  the  jarring — The  quartos,  exposed  against 
the  warring. 

<1  Tlie  lines  in  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 


Though  he  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that 

night 
Agaihst  my  fire.      And   wast  tliou   fain,  poor 

father. 
To  hovel  thee  with  swine,  and  rogues  forlorn, 
In  short  and  musty  straw  ?     Alack,  alack  ! 
'T  is  wonder,  that  thy  life  and  wits  at  once 
Had  not  concluded  all. — He  wakes ;  speak  to 
him. 
Phys.  Madam,  do  you  ;  't  is  fittest. 
Cor.  How   does  my   royal  lord?    How  fares 

your  majesty  ? 
Lear.  You  do  me  wrong,  to  take  me  out  o'the 
grave  : — 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss;  but  I  am  boimd 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Cor.  Sir,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Lear.  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know :  When  did 

you  die  ? 
Cor.  Still,  still,  far  wide ! 
Phys.  He 's   scarce  awake ;    let    him    alone 

awhile. 
Lear.  Where  have  I  been  ?     Where  am  I  ? — 
Fair  day-light  ? — 
I  am  mightily  abus'd. — I  should  e'en  die  with 

pity> 

To  see  another  thus. — I  know  not  what  to  say. — 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands: — let's  see  ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.     'Would  I  were  assur'd 
Of  my  condition. 

Cor.  O,  look  upon  me,  sir. 

And  hold  your  hand  in  benediction  o'er  me : — 
No,  sir,"  you  must  not  kneel. 

Lear.  Pray,  do  not  mock  me  : 

I  am  a  very  foolish  fond  old  man. 
Fourscore  and  upward ;  not  an  hour  more  nor 
less : '' 


■^  No,  sir — These  words  are  not  in  tlie  folio, 
b  Every  reader  of  Shakspcre,  who  has  become  familiar 
with  this  most  exquisite  scene  through  the  modern  editions, 
has  read  it  thus  : — 

"  Pray,  do  not  mock  me  : 

I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man. 

Fourscore  and  upward ;  and,  to  deal  plainly, 

I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind." 
That  most  Shaksperian  touch  of  nature — 

"  Fourscore  and  upward;  not  an  hour  more  nor  less  " — 
has  been  mutilated  by  the  editors.  The  breaking  a  limb  off 
an  ancient  statue  would,  to  our  minds,  not  be  a  greater 
sacrilege.  They  found  tlie  words  "not  an  hour  more  nor 
less"  only  in  the  folio,  and  they  therefore  rejected  them. 
Malone  says,  "The  folio  absurdly  adds,  '  not  an  hour  more 
nor  less,'  »'.  e.,  not  an  hour  more  nor  less  than  an  indetermi- 
nate number,  for  such  is  fourscore  and  upwards.'  Why, 
who  is  speaking?  One  who  speaks  logically  and  collectedly  ? 
No!  one  who  immediately  after  says,  "  I  fear  I  am  not  in 
my  perfect  mind."  It  was  the  half-consciousness  of  the 
"  foolish,  fond  old  man"  which  ShaUspere  meant  to  express 
by  the  mixture  of  a  determinate  and  an  indeterminate  idea  —a 
depth  of  poetical  truth  which  Steevens  and  Kitson  call  "the 
interpolation  of  some  foolish  player." 

453 


Act  IV.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[Scene  VII. 


And,  to  deal  plainly, 

I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 

Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this 

man ; 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 
What  place  this  is  :  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night :     Do  not  laugh 

at  me ; 
For,  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  be  my  child  Cordelia. 

Cor.  And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

Lear.  Be   your   tears   wet?     Yes,   'faith.     I 
pray,  weep  not : 
If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remembei-,  done  me  wrong : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

Cor.  No  cause,  no  cause. 

Lear.  Am  I  in  France  ? 

Kent.  In  your  own  kingdom,  sir. 

Lear.  Do  not  abuse  me. 

Phys.  Be  comforted,  good  madam  :  the  great 
rage. 
You  see,  is  kill'd"  in  him  :  [and  yet  it  is  danger 
To  make  him  even  o'er  the  time  he  has  lost.  **] 


^  KilVd — the  quartos,  CiO'eti. 

b  The  words  ia  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio. 


Desire  him  to  go  in  ;  trouble  him  no  more. 
Till  further  settling. 

Cor.  Will 't  please  your  highness  walk? 
Lear.  You  must  bear  with  me  : 

Fray  you  now,  forget  and  forgive  :  I  am  old  and 
foolish. 
lExeunt  Lear,  Cordelia,  Physician, 
and  Attendants. 
{^Gent.  Holds  it  true,  sir. 
That  the  duke  of  Cornwall  was  so  slain  ? 

Kent.  Most  certain,  sir, 

Gent.  Who  is  conductor  of  his  people? 
Kent.  As  'tis  said, 

The  bastard  son  of  Gloster. 

Gent.  They  say,  Edgar, 

His  banish'd  son,  is  with  the  Earl  of  Kent 
In  Germany, 

Kent.  Report  is  changeable. 

'Tis  time  to  look  about ;  the  powers  o'  the  king- 
dom 
Approach  apace, 

Gent.  The  arbitrement  is  like  to  be  bloody. 
Fare  you  well,  sir,  [Exit. 

Keiit.  My  point  and  period  will  be  throughly 
wrought. 
Or  well,  or  ill,  as  this  day's  battle  's  fought, 

lExit.  =•] 

^  The  scene  in  the  folio  concludes  with  Lear's  speech—  / 
am  old  and  foolish. 


454 


ILLUSTRATIONS   OF  ACT  IV. 


*   Scene  I. — "  There  is  a  cliff,  whose  highandbending 
head 
Looks  fearfully  in  the  confned  deep." 

A  CORRESPONDENT,  wlio  livcs  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Dover,  has  sent  us  the  following  particulars  re- 
garding Shakspere's  Clill": — "It  stands  about  a  mile 
west  of  Dover  Pier,  and,  by  ati-igonometrical  observa- 
tion taken  by  myself,  is  313  fet**  above  high-water 
mark.  Though,  perhaps,  somewhat  sunken,  I  con- 
sider it  to  be  of  the  same  shape  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  our  great  dramatist :  and,  though  it  has  been  said 
that  the  word  '  in '  means  that  it  overhung  the  sea, 
I  imagine  differently;  and  that  the  bays  on  each 
side  of  it,  which  make  it  a  small  promontory,  are 
sufficient  to  account  for  the  use  of  tiie  word.  You 
must  perceive  that  the  'half-way  down'  must  have 
projected  beyond  the  summit  to  enable  the  samphire- 
gatherer  to  procure  the  plant."     (See  Illustration  3.) 


2  Scene  VI. 


-"  How  fearful 


And  dizzy' lis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low!  '' 
&c. 

Dr.  Johnson  has  the  following  criticism  on  this 
celebrated  passage: — "This  description  has  been 
much  admired  since  the  time  of  Addison,  who  has 
remarked,  with  a  poor  attempt  at  pleasantly,  that — 
'  He  who  can  read  it  without  being  giddy  has  a  very 
good  head,  or  a  very  bad  one.'  The  description  is 
certainly  not  mean,  but  I  am  far  from  thinking  it 
wrought  to  the  utmost  excellence  of  poetry.  He  that 
looks  from  a  precipice  finds  himself  assailed  by  one 
great  and  dreadful  image  of  irresistible  destruction. 
-But  this  overwhelming  idea  is  dissipated  and  enfeebled 
from  the  instant  that  the  mind  can  restore  itself  to  the 
observation  of  particulars,  and  diffuse  its  attention 
to  distinct  objects.  The  enumeration  of  the  choughs 
and  crows,  the  samphire-man,  and  the  fishers,  coun- 
teracts the  great  effect  of  the  prospect,  as  it  peoples 
the  desert  of  intermediate  vacuity,  and  stops  the  mind 
in  the  rapidity  of  its  descent  through  emptiness  and 
horror." 

In  this  criticism  we  detect  much  of  the  peculiar 
character  of  Johnson's  mind,  as  well  as  of  the  poetical 
taste  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  Wordsworth,  in 
his  preface  to  the  second  edition  of  his  poems,  has 
shown  clearly  upon  what  false  foundations  that  cri- 
ticism is  built  which  would  prefer  high-sounding 
words,  conveying  only  indeterminate  ideas,  and  call 
these  the  only  proper  language  of  poetry,  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  simple  and  distinct  language,  "however 
naturally  arranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws 
of  metre,"  which  by  such  criticism  is  denominated 
prosaic.  Johnson  was  thoroughly  consistent  in  his 
dislike  of  the  "observation  of  particulars,"  and  the 
" attention  to  distinct  objects."  In  Boswell's  'Life' 
we  have  a  more  detailed  account  of  his  poetical  creed, 
with  reference  to  this  very  description  of  Dover 
cliff: — "Johnson  said  that  the  description  of  the 
temple,  in  'The    Mourning   Bride,'   was   the    finest 


poetical  passage  he  had  ever  read :  he  recollected 
none  in  Shakspeare  equal  to  it, — 

("  '  How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 

Whose  ancient  pillars  rt'ar  their  marble  heads, 

To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  pond' reus  roof; 

By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  unmoveable. 

Looking  tiaviquillity !     It  strikes  an  awe 

And  terror  on  my  aching  sight.     The  tombs 

And  monumental  caves  of  di-ath  look  cold, 

And  shoot  a  dullness  to  my  trembling  heart!  '  ) 

" '  But,'  said  Garrick,  all  alarmed  for  the  god  of  his 
idolatry,  'we  know  not  the  extent  and  variety  of  his 
powers.  We  are  to  suppose  there  are  such  passages 
in  his  works  :  Shakspeare  must  not  suffer  from  the 
badness  of  our  memories.'  Johnson,  diverted  by  this 
enthusiastic  jealousy,  went  on  with  great  ardour — '  No, 
sir ;  Congreve  has  nature '  (smiling  on  the  tragic  eager- 
ness of  Garrick) ;  but,  composing  himself,  he  added, 
'  Sir,  this  is  not  comparing  Congreve  on  the  whole  with 
Shakspeare  on  the  whole,  but  oidy  maintaining  that 
Congreve  has  one  finer  passage  than  any  that  can  be 

found  in  Shakspeare What  I  mean  is,  that 

you  can  show  me  no  passage  where  there  is  simply  a 
description  of  material  objects,  without  any  inter- 
mixture of  moral  notions,  which  produces  such  an 
effect.'  Mr.  Murphy  mentioned  Shakspeare's  descrip- 
tion of  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Agincourt ;  but 
it  was  observed  it  had  men  in  it.  Mr.  Davies  sug- 
gested the  speech  of  Juliet,  in  which  she  figures  her- 
self awaking  in  the  tomb  of  her  ancestors.  Some 
one  mentioned  the  description  of  Dover  cliff.  John- 
son— 'No,  sir;  it  should  be  all  precipice — all  va- 
cuum. The  crows  impede  your  fall.  The  dimi- 
nished appearance  of  the  boats,  and  other  circum- 
stances, are  all  very  good  description,  but  do  not  im- 
press the  mind  at  once  with  the  horrible  idea  of  im- 
mense height.  The  impression  is  divided;  you  pass 
on,  by  computation,  from  one  stage  of  the  trementlous 
space  to  another.  Had  the  girl  in  '  The  Mourning 
Bride '  said  she  could  not  cast  her  shoe  to  the  top  of 
one  of  the  pillars  in  the  temple,  it  would  not  have 
aided  the  idea,  but  weakened  it.' " 

Taken  as  pieces  of  pure  description,  there  is  only 
one  way  of  testing  the  different  value  of  the  passages 
in  Shakspere  and  Congreve— that  is,  by  considering 
what  ideas  the  mind  receives  from  the  different 
modes  adopted  to  convey  ideas.  But  the  criticism 
of  Johnson,  even  if  it  could  have  established  that 
the  passage  of  Cong^reve,  taken  apart,  was  "  finer" 
than  that  of  Shakspere,  utterly  overlooks  the  dramatic 
propriety  of  each  passage.  The  "  girl,"  in  the 
'  Mourning  Bride '  is  soliloquising — uttering  a  piece  of 
versification,  harmonious  enougli,  indeed,  but  without 
any  dramatic  purpose.  The  mode  in  which  Edgar 
describes  the  cliff  is  for  the  special  information  of  the 
blind  Gloster — one  who  could  not  look  from  a  preci- 
pice. The  crows  and  choughs,  the  samphire-gatherer, 
the  fisherman,  the  bark,  the  surge  that  is  seen  but  not 
heard — each  of  these,  incidental  to  the  place,  is  se- 
lected as  a  standanl  by  which  Glost<?r  can  measure 

455 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF  ACT  IV. 


tlie  altitude  of  the  clilV.  Transpose  the  description 
into  the  generalities  of  Congreve's  description  of  the 
cathedral,  and  the  dramatic  propriety  at  least  is 
utterly  destroyed.  The  height  of  the  cliff  is  then 
only  presented  as  an  image  to  Gloster"s  mind  upon 
the  vague  assertion  of  his  conductor.  Let  the  de- 
scription begin,  for  example,  something  after  the 
fashion  of  Congreve, — 

"  How  fearful  is  the  edge  of  this  high  cliff!" 
and  continue  with    a    proper  assortment  of  chalky 
crags  and  gulfs  below.    Of  what  worth  then  would 
be  Edgar's  concluding  lines, — 

"  I'll  look  no  more  ; 

Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 

Topple  down  headlong  ?" 
The  mind  of  Gloster  might  have  thus  received  some 
"  idea  of  immense  height,"  but  not  an  idea  that  he 
could  appreciate  "  by  computation."  The  very  de- 
fects which  Johnson  imputes  to  Shakspere's  descrip- 
tion constitute  its  dramatic  merit.  We  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying  further,  that  they  constitute  its 
surpassing  poetical  beauty,  apart  from  its  dramatic 
propriety. 


^  Scene  \T. 


-''  Half  ivay  doivn 


Hangs   one    that    gathers   samphire; 
dreadful  trade  !  " 

There    can    be   little   doubt   that   Shakspere  was 


locally  acquainted  with  the  neighbourhood  of  Dover. 
The  cliffs  in  his  time,  as  adjacent  portions  of  the  coast 
are  now,  were  celebrated  for  the  production  of  sam- 
phire. Drayton,  in  his '  Poly-olbion,'  has  these  lines : — 

"  Some,  his  ill-season'd  mouth  that  wisely  understood, 
Rob  Dover's  neighbouring  cleeves  of  sampjTe,  to  excite 
His  dull  and  sickly  taste,  and  stir  up  appetite." 

The  last  line  shows  us  the  uses  of  samphire.  It  was 
and  is  prepared  as  a  pickle ;  and  it  was  in  such  de- 
mand that  it  was  mentioned  by  Heywood,  in  a  song 
enumerating  the  cries  of  London, — 

"  I  ha'  rock-sampliier,  rock-samphier." 

*  Scene  VI. — "  Hadst  thou  been  aught  but  gossamer.'''' 

There  is  a  beautiful  description  of  the  gossamer 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet, — 

"  A  lover  may  bestride  the   gossamer, 
That  idles  in  the  wanton  summer  air. 
And  yet  not  fall,  so  light  is  vanity." 

It  is  needless  to  inquire  whether  Shakspere  was 
aware  that  the  filmy  threads  were  the  production  of 
spiders.  Spenser  mentions  them  as  "scorched  dew." 
Without  entering  into  any  detail  of  the  controversy 
between  naturalists  as  to  the  causes  of  the  phenome- 
non, in  coimexion  with  the  spider,  we  may  quote 
Gilbert  White's  remarks,  attached  to  his  interesting 
description  of  a  shower  of  gossamers : — 

"  The  remark  that  I  shall  make  on  these  cobweb- 
like appearances,  called  gossamer,  is,  that,  strange 
and  superstitious  as  the  notions  about  them  were 
formerly,  nobody  in  these  days  doubts  but  that  they 
are  the  real  production  of  small  spiders,  which  swarm 
in  the  fields  in  fine  weather  in  autumn,  and  have  a 
power  of  shooting  out  webs  from  their  tails,  so  as  to 
render  themselves  buoyant  and  lighter  than  air. 
Every  day  in  fine  weather,  in  autumn 
chiefly,  do  I  see  those  spiders  shooting  out  their  webs 
and  mounting  aloft :  they  will  go  oft'  from  your  finger 
if  you  will  take  them  into  your  hand.  Last  summer 
one  alighted  on  my  book,  as  I  was  reading  in  the 
parlour,  and,  running  to  the  top  of  the  page,  and 
shooting  out  a  web,  took  its  departure  from  thence. 
But  what  I  most  wondered  at  was,  that  it  went  off 
with  considerable  velocity  in  a  place  where  no  air 
was  stirring,  and  I  am  sure  that  I  did  not  assist  it 
with  my  breath.  So  that  these  little  crawlers  seem 
to  have,  while  mounting,  some  locomotive  power, 
without  the  use  of  wings,  and  to  move  in  the  air 
faster  than  the  air  itself." — Histoj-y  of  Selborne. 


45G 


[Dover  Castle,  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth.] 


ACT  V. 


SCENE  I.— The  Camp  of  the  British  Forces, 
near  Dover. 

Enter,  with  drums  and  colours,  Edmund,  Regan, 
Officers,  Soldiers,  and  others. 

Edm.  Know  of  the  duke  if  his  last  purpose 
hold; 
Or  whether,  since,  he  is  advis'd  by  aught 
To  change  the  course  :  He  's  full  of  alteration. 
And   self- reproving  : — bring  his  constant  plea- 
sure. [7^0  an  Officer,  who  goes  out. 

Reg.  Our  sister  s  man  is  certainly  miscarried. 

Edm.  'Tis  to  be  doubted,  madam. 

Reg.  Now,  sweet  lord. 

You  know  the  goodness  I  intend  upon  you  : 
Tell  me, — but  truly, — but  then  speak  the  truth, 
Do  you  not  love  my  sister  ? 

Edm.  In  honom-'d  love. 

Reg.  But  have  you  never  found  my  brother's 
way 
To  the  forefended  place  ? 

Edm.  [That  thought  abuses  you. 

Reg.  I  am  doubtful  that  you  have  been  con- 
junct 
And  bosom'd  with  her,  as  far  as  we  call  hers."] 

»  The  lines  in  brackets  are  omitted  in  the  folio ;  as  well 
as  the  snbseqiient  passages  in  the  same  scene  so  marked,  as 
spoken  by  Goneril,  Albany,  and  Edmund. 

TllAOFDIES. — Vot,.   I.  3  N 


Edm.  No,  by  mine  honour,  madam. 

Reg.    I  never  sliall  endure  her:    Dear  my 
lord. 
Be  not  familiar  with  her. 

Edm.                             Fear  me  not : — 
She,  and  the  duke  lier  husband, 

Enter  Albany,  Goneril,  and  Soldiers. 

\_Gon.  I  had  rather  lose  the  battle  than  that 
sister 
Should  loosen  him  and  me.  \^Aside.'\ 

Alh.  Our  very  loving  sister,  well  be  met. — 
Sir,    this    I   heard, — The  king  is  come  to   his 

daughter. 
With  others,  whom  the  rigour  of  our  state 
Forc'd  to  cry  out.    [Where  I  could  not  be  honest, 
I  never  yet  was  valiant :  for  this  business, 
It  toucheth  us  as  France  invades  our  land, 
Not   holds    the    king;     with    others,    whom,    I 

fear, 
Most  just  and  heavy  causes  make  oppose. 

Edm.  Sir,  you  speak  nobly.] 

Reg.  Why  is  this  reason'd  ? 

Gon.  Combine  together  'gainst  tlie  enemy  : 
For  these  domestic,  and  particular  broils 
Are  not  the  question  "  here. 

'•  The  7Hesfi'on— the  quartos,  io  question. 

4.57 


Act  v.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENKS  II.,   III. 


Alb.  Let's  then  determine  with  the  ancient 

of  war 
On  our  proceeding." 

[Edm,  I  shall  attend  you  presently  at  your 

tent.] 
Reff.  Sister,  you'll  go  with  us? 
Go7i.  No. 
lieg.  'T  is  most  convenient ;  pray  you  go  with 

us. 
Gon.  O,  ho,  I  know  the  riddle :  l_Aside.^  I 

will  go. 

As  they  are  going  out,  enter  Edgar,  disguised. 

Edg.  If  e'er  your  grace  had  speech  with  man 
so  poor, 
Hear  me  one  word. 

Alb.  I  '11  overtake  you. — Speak. 

[£a;eM?i^ Edmund,  Regan,  Goneril,  Officers, 
Soldiers,  and  Attendants. 
Edg.  Before   you   fight   the  battle,  ope  this 
letter. 
If  you  have  victory,  let  the  trumpet  sound 
Forhimthathrouglitit :  wretched  thougli  I  seem, 
I  can  produce  a  champion,  that  will  prove 
What  is  avouched  there :  if  you  miscarry. 
Your  business  of  the  world  hath  so  an  end, 
And  machination  ceases.     Fortune  love  you! 
Alb.  Stay  till  I  have  read  the  letter. 
Edg.  I  was  forbid  it. 

When  time  shall  serve,  let  but  the  herald  cry. 
And  I  '11  appear  again.  [_Exit. 

Alb.  Why,  fare  thee  well ;  I  will  o'erlook  thy 
paper. 

Re-enter  Edmund. 

Edm.  The  enemy's  in  view,   draw  up  your 
powers. 
Here  is  the  guess  of  their  true  strength  and  forces 
By  diligent  discovery  : — but  your  haste 
Is  now  urg'd  on  you. 

Alb.  We  will  greet  the  time.     {_Exit. 

Edm.  To  both  these  sisters  have  I  sworn  my 
love; 
Each  jealous  of  the  other,  as  the  stung 
Are  of  the  adder.     Which  of  them  shall  I  take? 
Both?  one?  or  neither?  Neither  can  be  enjoy 'd. 
If  both  remain  alive:  To  take  the  widow, 
Exaspei'ates,  makes  mad  her  sister  Goneril; 
And  hardly  shall  I  carry  out  my  side 
Her  husband  being  alive.     Now  then,  we  '11  use 
His  countenance  for  the  battle ;  which  being  done. 
Let  her  who  would  be  rid  of  him  devise 
His  speedy  taking  off.     As  for  the  mercy 

•  Pnicecding — the  (lUaitos,  pruceedings. 

458 


Which  he  intends  to  Lear  and  to  Cordelia, 
The  battle  done,  and  they  witliin  our  power, 
Shall  never  see  his  pardon  :  for  my  state 
Stands  on  me  to  defend,  not  to  debate.      [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — A  Field  between  the  two  Camps. 

Alarum  within.     Enter,  with  drum  and  colours, 
Lear,  Cordelia,  a7id  their  Forces;  and  exeunt. 

Enter  Edgar  and  Gloster. 
Edg.  Here,  father,  take  the  shadow  of  this  tree 
For  your  good  host;  pray  that  the  right  may 

thrive : 
If  ever  I  return  to  you  again, 
I  '11  bring  you  comfort. 

Glo.  Grace  go  with  you,  sir! 

\_Exit  Edgar. 

Alarums  ;  afterwards  a  retreat.  Re-enter  Edgar. 

Edg.  Away,  old  man,  give  me  thy  hand,  away ; 
King  Lear  hath  lost,  he  and  his  daughter  ta'en  : 
Give  me  thy  hand,  come  on. 

Glo.  No  further,  sir ;  a  man  may  rot  even  here. 

Edg.  What,  in  ill  thoughts  again?  Men  must 
endure 
Their  going  hence,  even  as  their  coming  hither: 
Ripeness  is  all :  Come  on. 

Glo.  And  that  's  true  too. 

\^Exeunt. 
SCENE  III.— The  British  Camp  near  Dover. 

Enter,  in  conquest,  with  drum  and  colours,  Ed- 
mund ;  Lear  and  Cordelia,  as  prisoners ; 
Officers,  Soldiers,  8fc. 

Edm.  Some  officers  take  them  away:   good 
guard ; 
Until  their  greater  pleasures  first  be  known 
That  are  to  censure  them. 

Cor.  We  are  not  the  first. 

Who,  with  best  meaning,  have  incurr'dthe  worst. 
For  thee,  oppressed  king,  I  am  cast  down ; 
Myself    could    else    out-frown    false   fortune's 

frown. — 
Shall  we  not  see  these  daughters  and  these  sis- 
ters ? 
Lear.  No,  no,  no,  no!     Come,  let 's  away  to 
prison ; 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  i'  the  cage : 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I  '11  kneel  down. 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness :  So  we  '11  live. 
And  pray,  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales,  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 
Talk  of  court  news ;  and  we  '11  talk  with  them 

too, — 
Who  loses,  and  who  wins:  who  's  in,  who's  out, 


Act  v.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[ScKNE  in. 


And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things, 
As  if  we  were  God's  spies :  and  we  '11  wear  out, 
In  a  wall'd  prison,  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones. 
That  ebb  and  flow  by  the  moon. 

Edm,  Take  them  away. 

Lear.  Upon  such  sacrifices,  my  Cordelia, 
The  gods  themselves  throw  incense.     Have  I 

caught  thee  ? 
He  that  parts  us  shall  bring  abrand  from  heaven 
And  fire  us  hence,  like  foxes.  Wipe  thine  eyes; 
The  good  years'*  shall  devour  them,  flesh  and 

fell," 
Ere  they  shall  make  us  weep  :  we  '11  see  them 

starve  first. 
Come.     [Exeunt  Lear  and  Cordelia,  guarded. 

Edm.  Come  hither,  captain  ;  hark. 
Take  thou  this  note  ;  [giving  a  paper']  go,  follow 

them  to  prison  ; 
One  step  I  have  advanc'd  thee  :  if  thou  dost 
As  this  instructs  thee,  thou  dost  make  thy  way 
To  noble  fortunes :  Know  thou  this, — that  men 
Are  as  the  time  is  :  to  be  tender-minded 
Does  not  become  a  sword  : — Thy  great  employ- 
ment 
Will  not  bear  question  ; — either  say,  thou 'It  do't, 
Or  thrive  by  other  means. 

Off.  I  '11  do  't,  my  lord. 

Edm.  About  it ;  and  write  happy,  when  thou 
hast  done. 
Mark, — I  say,  instantly  ;  and  carry  it  so 
As  I  have  set  it  down. 

[Off.  I  cannot  draw  a  cart,  nor  eat  dried  oats ; 
If  it  be  man's  work  I  will  do  it.*^]  [Exit  OflScer. 

Flourish.     Enter  Albany,  Goneril,  Regan, 

Officers,  and  Attendants. 
Alb.  Sir,  you  have  shown  to-day  your  valiant 
strain. 
And  fortune  led  you  well :  You  have  the  captives 
Who  were  the  opposites  of  this  day's  strife  : 
I  do  require  them  of  you,  so  to  use  them. 
As  we  shall  find  their  merits  and  our  safety 
May  equally  determine. 

Edm.  Sir,  I  thought  it  fit 

To  send  the  old  and  miserable  king 

^  Good  years— so  the  folio;  the  quartos,  "  the  good  shall 
devour  them."  The  ordinary  readino;  is  poiyeers.  We  sub- 
join a  note  from  Tieck  :— "  The  '  good  yeares '  of  tlie  folio  is 
used  ironically  for  the  bad  year — the  year  of  pestilence ;  and, 
like  i7  mal  anno  of  the  Italians,  had  been  long  used  as  a 
curse  in  England.  And  yet  the  I'ditors,  who  understood 
the  poet  as  little  as  their  own  language,  made  out  of  this — 
the  goujeers — morbus  gallicus.  Why,  even  old  Florio,  who 
might  have  known  pretty  well,  is  tutored  that,  when  he 
translates  il  mal  anno  by  good  year,  he  ought  to  liave  written 
goujeers." 

»>■  Fell— skin. 

•^  These  lines  are  omitted  in  the  folio ;  and  so  also  the  sub- 
sequent words  and  lines  in  Edmund's  speech,  each  of  which 
is  marked  in  brackets. 


To  some  retention  [and  appointed  guard;] 
Whose  age  has  charms  in  it,  whose  title  more, 
To  pluck  the  common  bosom  on  his  side. 
And  turn  our  impress'd  lances  in  our  eyes 
Which  do  command  them.    With  him  I  sent  the 

queen ; 
My  reason  all  the  same ;  and  they  are  I'eady 
To-morrow,  or  at  further  space,  to  appear 
Where  you  shallhold  yoursession.  [At  this  time 
We  sweat  and  bleed:  the  friend  hath  lost  his 

friend  ; 
And  the  best  quarrels,  in  the  heat,  are  curs'd 
By  those  that  feel  their  sharpness  : — 
The  question  of  Cordelia  and  her  father 
Requires  a  fitter  place.] 

Alb.  Sir,  by  your  patience, 

I  hold  you  but  a  subject  of  this  war, 
Not  as  a  brother. 

Reg.  That  's  as  we  list  to  grace  him. 

Methinks  our  pleasure    might  have  been   de- 
manded, 
Ere  you  had  spoke  so  far.     He  led  our  powers; 
Bore  the  commission  of  my  place  and  person  ; 
The  which  immediacy  may  well  stand  up, 
And  call  itself  your  brother. 

Gon.  Not  so  hot : 

In  his  own  grace  he  doth  exalt  himself, 
More  than  in  your  addition." 

Reg.  In  my  rights, 

By  me  invested,  he  compeers  the  best. 

Gon.  That  were  the  most  if  he  should  husband 
you. 

Reg.  Jesters  do  oft  prove  prophets. 

Go7i.  Holla,  holla! 

That  eye  that  told  you  so  look'd  but  a-squint. 

Reg.  Lady,  I  am  not  well ;  else  I  should  an- 
swer 
From  a  full-flowing  stomach. — General, 
Take  thou  my  soldiers,  prisoners,  patrimony  ; 
Dispose  of  them,  of  me  ;  the  walls  are  thine  : 
Witness  the  world,  that  I  create  thee  here 
My  lord  and  master. 

Gon.  Mean  you  to  enjoy  him  ? 

Alb.  The  let-alone  lies  not  in  your  good-will. 

Edm.  Nor  in  thine,  lord. 

Alb.  Half-blooded  fellow,  yes. 

Reg.  Let  the  drum  strike,  and  prove  my  title 
thine.  [To  Edmund. 

Alb.  Stay  yet ;    hear    reason  : — Edmund,    I 
arrest  thee 
On  capital  treason  ;  and,  in  thy  arrest. 
This  gilded  serpent :    [Pointing  to  Gon.] — for 

your  claim,  fair  sister, 
I  bar  it  in  the  interest  of  my  wife  ; 

"  Addition — the  quartos,  advancement. 
439 


Act  v.] 


KlNCi  LEAR. 


[SCKNE    III. 


'Tis  she  is  sub-contracted  to  tliis  lord, 
And  I,  her  husband,  contradict  your  bans. 
If  you  will  marry  make  your  loves  to  me. 
My  lady  is  bespoke. 

Gon.  An  interlude  ! 

Alh.  Thou    art   arm'd,     Gloster:  —  Let  the 
txnnnpet  sound  : 
If  none  appear  to  prove  upon  thy  person, 
Thy  heinous,  manifest,  and  many  treasons, 
There  is  my  pledge;   [^Throtvhiy  down  a  glove.'\ 

I'll  make  "  it  on  thy  heart, 
Ere  I  taste  bread,  thou  art  in  nothing  less 
Than  I  have  here  proclaim'd  thee. 

Beg.  Sick,  O,  sick  ! 

Go7i.  If  not,  I'll  ne'er  trust  medichie.''  \^Aside. 

Edm.  There  's  my  exchange  :  \_Tliroiving  dowti 
a  glove.^  what  in  the  world  he  is 
That  names  me  traitor,  villain-like  he  lies : 
Call  by  the  trumpet:  he  that  dares  approach, 
On  him,  on  you,  (who  not  ?)  I  will  maintain 
My  truth  and  honovu-  firmly. 

Alb.  A  herald,  hoa ! 

[Edr/i.  A  herald,  hoa,  a  herald  !<^ 

Alb.'j  Trust  to  thy  single  virtue  ;  for  thy  sol- 
diers. 
All  levied  in  my  name,  have  in  my  name 
Took  their  discharge. 

Meg.  My  sickness  grows  upon  me. 

Enter  a  Herald. 

Alb.  She  is  not  well ;  convey  her  to  my  tent. 
l_Exit  Regan,  led. 
Come  hither,  herald, — Let  the  trumpet  sound, — 
And  read  out  this. 

[Off.  Sound,  trumpet !]     \^A  trumpet  sounds. 

Herald  reads. 

If  any  miin  of  quality  or  degree,  within  the  lists  of  the 
army,  willmaintaiu  upon  Edmund,  supposed  earl  of  Gloster, 
tliat  he  is  a  manifold  traitor,  let  him  appear  by  the  third 
sound  of  the  trumpet :  He  is  bold  iu  his  defence. 


lEdm,  Sound!] 
Her.  Again. 
Her.  Again. 


[1  Trumpet. 

[2  Trumpet. 

[3  Trumpet. 

[^Trumpet  answers  within. 


Enter  Edgar,  armed,  preceded  by  a  trumpet. 

Alb.  Ask  him  his  purposes,  why  he  appears 
Upon  this  call  o'  the  trumpet. 

Her.  What  are  you  ? 

Yoiu-  name,  your  quality?  and  why  you  answer 
Tins  present  summons? 

Edg.  Know,  my  name  is  lost ; 

"  Make — the  quartos,  jjrotie. 
^  Medicine — the  quartos,  poison. 

"  This  speecli  is  not  found  in  the  folio,  nor  the  two  subse- 
quent exclamations  of  "  Sound,  trumpet !"  and  "  Sound  I" 

460 


By  treason's  tooth  bare  gnawn,  and  canker-bit : 
Yet  am  I  noble,  as  the  adversary 
I  come  to  cope  withal. 

Alb.  Which  is  that  adversary? 

Edg.  What 's  he  that  speaks  for  Edmund  earl 
of  Gloster  ? 

Edm.  Himself; — What  say 'st  thou  to  him? 

Edg.  Draw  thy  sword ; 

That,  if  my  speech  offend  a  noble  heart, 
Thy  arm  may  do  thee  justice :  here  is  mine. 
Behold,  it  is  my  privilege. 
The  privilege  of  mine  honours, 
My  oath,  and  my  profession ;  "  I  protest,— 
Maugre  thy  strength,  place,  youth,  and  eminence, 
Despite  thy  victor  sword  and  fire-new  fortune, 
Thy  valour,  and  thy  heart, — thou  art  a  traitor  : 
False  to  thy  gods,  thy  brother,  and  thy  father ; 
Conspirant  'gainst  this  high  illustrious  prince; 
And,  from  the  extremest  upward  of  thy  head, 
To  the  descent  and  dust  below  thy  feet, 
A  most  toad-spotted  traitor.     Say  thou,  '  No,' 
This  sword,  this  arm,  and  my  best  spirits,  are  bent 
To  prove  upon  thy  heart,  whereto  I  speak, 
Thou  liest. 

Edm.  In  wisdom,  I  should  ask  thy  name ; 
But,  since  thy  outside  looks  so  fair  and  warlike, 
And  that  thy  tongue  some   say ''  of  breeding 

breathes. 
What  safe  and  nicely  I  might  well  delay, 
By  rule  of  knighthood,  I  disdain  and  spurn  : 
Back  do  I  toss  these  treasons  to  thy  head ; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'erwhelm  thy  heart ; 
Which,   (for  they  yet  glance  by,   and  scarcely 

bruise,) 
This  sword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way. 
Where   they   shall   rest  for  ever.  —  Trumpets, 
speak. 
\_Alarums.     They  fight.     Eduv^d  falls. 

Alb.  Save  him,  save  him! 

Gon.  This  is  practice,  <=  Gloster : 

By  the  law  of  war,*"  thou  wast  not  bound  to  an- 
swer 
An  unknown  opposite;  thou  art  notvanquish'd, 
But  cozen'd  and  beguil'd. 

Alb.  Shut  your  mouth,  dame, 

Or  with  this  paper  shall  I  stop  it: — Hold,  sir: — 


«  We  print  as  in  the  folio.    The  quartos  read, — 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  privilege  of  my  tongue. 
My  oath  and  profession." 
Tlie  modern  reading  is — 

"  Behold,  it  is  the  privilege  of  mine  honours. 
My  oath  and  my  profession." 
This  is  the  compound  of  Steevens  and  Company,  which  is  la- 
belled '  Shakspere.' 
i*  Say — assay.    (See  note  on  Act  i.,  Sc.  ii.) 
"  Practice — the  quartos,  mere  practice. 
*  JVar  —  i\ie  quartos,  arrns. 


A.vr  v.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCENK    III. 


Thou  worse  tlum   any   name,  read    thine   own 

evil : — 
No  tearing,  lady  ;  I  perceive  you  know  it. 

{^Gives  the  letter  to  Edmund. 

Gon.  Say,  if  I    do  :  the  laws  are  mine,  not 
thine : 
Who  can"  arraign  me  for  't  ?       [Exit  Goneril. 

^Ib.  Most  monstrous ! 

Know'st  thou  this  paper? 

JSdm.  Ask  me  not  what  I  know.** 

Alb.  Go  after  her  :  she  's  desperate  ;  govern 
her.  [7*0  a7i  Officer,  who  goes  out. 

Edm.  What  you  have  charg'd  me  with,  that 
have  I  done, 
And  more,  much  more :  the  time  will  bring  it  out ; 
'Tis  past,  and  so  am  I :  But  what  art  thou 
That  hast  this  fortune  on  me?    If  thou  art  noble 
I  do  forgive  thee. 

Edg.  Let's  exchange  charity. 

I  am  no  less  in  blood  than  thou  art,  Edmund ; 
If  more,  the  more  thou  hast  wrong'd  me. 
My  name  is  Edgar,  and  thy  father's  son. 
The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  "^  us : 
The  dark  and  vicious  place  where  thee  he  got 
Cost  him  his  eyes. 

Edm.  Thou  hast  spoken  right,  'tis  true  ; 

The  wheel  is  come  full  circle  ;  I  am  here. 

Alb.  Methought  thy  very  gait  did  prophesy 
A  royal  nobleness : — I  must  embrace  thee  ; 
Let  sorrow  split  my  heart,  if  ever  I 
Did  hate  thee,  or  thy  father ! 

Edg.  Worthy  prince,  I  know  't. 

Alb.  Where  have  you  hid  yourself? 
How  have   you    known  the   miseries   of  your 
father  ? 

Edg.  By  nursing  them,  my  lord. — List  a  brief 
tale ; — 
And  when  'tis  told,  O,  that   my  heart  would 

burst !  — 
The  bloody  proclamation  to  escape 
That  follow'd  me   so  near,  (O  our  lives'  sweet- 
ness! 
That  we  the  pain  of  death  would  hourly  die,"* 
Rather  than  die  at  once  I)  taught  me  to  shift 

'  Can — the  quartos,  shall. 

*>  We  place  the  exit  of  Goneril  as  in  the  folio.  The  ex 
clamation  of  Albany — "Must  monstrous!"  is  the  natural 
result  of  her  unyielding  haughtiness.  The  question  of  Al- 
bany— "  Know'st  thou  this  paper?"  is,  in  the  folio,  answered 
by  Edmund — "  Ask  me  not  what  I  know."  la  the  quartos, 
liowever,  which  have  been  followed  by  the  modern  editors, 
this  reply  is  given  to  Goneril.  But  wliy  should  Albany 
address  this  question  to  Goneril,  when  he  has  previously  said 
to  her — "  No  tearing,  lady  ;  I  perceive  you  know  it." 

"  Plague — the  quartos,  scuurge. 

*  We  print  this  line  as  in  the  folio.  The  quarto,  which  is 
he  ordinary  reading,  has, — 

"  That  with  the  pain  of  death  we  'd  liourly  die." 


Into  a  mad-man's  rags;  to  assume  a  semblance 
That  very  dogs  disdaiu'd :  aiul  in  this  habit 
Met  I  my  father  with  his  bleeding  rings. 
Their  precious  stones  new  lost ;  became  his  guide. 
Led  him,  begg'dfor  him,  sav'dhim  from  despair; 
Never  (O  fault!)  reveal'd  myself  unto  him, 
Until  some  half-hour  past,  when  I  was  arm'd ; 
Not  sure,  though  hoping,  of  this  good  success, 
I  ask'd  his  blessing,  and  from  first  to  last 
Told  him  our  pilgrimage  :  but  his  flaw'd  heart, 
(Alack,  too  weak  the  conffict  to  support!) 
'Twixt  two  extremes  of  passion,  joy  and  grief, 
Burst  smilingly. 

Edm.      This  speech  of  yours  hath  mov'd  me. 
And  shall,  perchance,  do  good:  but  speak  you 

on; 
You  look  as  you  had  something  more  to  say. 

Alb.  If  there  be  more,  more  woful,  hold  it  in; 
For  I  am  almost  ready  to  dissolve, 
Hearing  of  this. 

\_Edg.  This  would  have  seem'd  a  period 

To  such  as  love  not  sorrow ;  but  another, 
To  amplify  too  much,  would  make  much  more. 
And  top  extremity. 
Whilst  I  was  big  in  clamour,  came  there  in  a 

man, 
Who,  having  seen  me  in  my  worse  estate, 
Shunn'd  my  abhorr'd  society ;  but  then,  finding 
Who  'twas  that  so  endur'd,  with  his  strong  arms 
He  fasten'd  on  my  neck,  and  bellow'd  out 
As  he  'd  burst  heaven  ;  threw  him  on  my  father; 
Told  the  most  piteous  tale  of  Lear  and  him. 
That  ever  ear  receiv'd :  which  in  recounting 
His  grief  grew  puissant,  and  the  strings  of  life 
Began    to   crack :    Twice    then    the    trumpet 

sounded, 
And  there  I  left  him  tranc'd. 

Alb.  But  who  was  this  ? 

Edg.  Kent,  sir,  the  banish'd  Kent ;    who  in 
disguise 
Follow'd  his  enemy  king,  and  did  him  service 
Improper  for  a  slave."] 

Enter  a  Gentleman  hastily,  with  a  bloody  knife. 

Gent.  Help  !  help  !  O  help  ! 

Edg.  What  kind  of  help  ? 

Alb.  Speak,  man. 

Edg.  What  means  this  bloody  knife  ? 

Gent.  'Tis  hot,  it  smokes; 

It  came  even  fi'om  the  heart  of — O  she  's  dead. 

Alb.  Who  dead?  speak,  man.^ 

"The  lines  in  brackets,  beginning — "This  would  have 
seem'd  a  period,"  are  omitted  in  tlie  folio. 

^  We  give  the  passage  as  in  the  folio.     The  quarto  reads — 

"It  came  even  from  the  heart  of 

Alb.  Who,  man?  speak  !  " 

461 


Act  v.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[StTKNK    III. 


Gent.  Your  lady,  sir,  your  lady  :  and  her  sister 
By  her  is  poison'd  ;  she  confesses  it. 

Edm.  I  was  contracted  to  them  hoth  ;  all  three 
Now  marry  in  an  instant. 

Eclg.  Here  comes  Kent. 

Alh.  Produce  the  bodies,   be   they   alive    or 
dead  !  — 
This  judgment  of  the  heavens   that  makes   us 

tremble, 
Touches  us  not  with  pity.         \_Exit  Gentleman. 
Enter  Kent. 

O,  is  this  he  ?  " 
The  time  will  not  allow  the  compliment, 
Which  very  manners  lu'ges. 

Kent.  I  am  come 

To  bid  my  king  and  master  aye  good  night ; 
Is  he  not  here  ? 

Alb.  Great  thing  of  us  forgot ! — 

Speak,  Edmund,  where 's  the  king ;  and  where  's 

Cordelia  ? — 
See'st  thou  this  object,  Kent? 

\_Tlie  bodies  o/Goneril  a?zc?  Regan  are 
brought  in. 
Kent.  Alack,  why  thus  ? 
Edm.  Yet  Edmund  was  belov'd  : 

The  one  the  other  poison'd  for  my  sake, 
And  after  slew  herself. 

Alb.  Even  so. — Cover  their  faces. 
Edm.  I  pant  for  life  :  Some  good  I  mean  to  do. 
Despite  of  mine  own  nature.     Quickly  send, — 
Be  brief  in  it, — to  the  castle ;  for  my  writ 
Is  on  the  life  of  Lear,  and  on  Cordelia : — 
Nay,  send  in  time. 

Alb.  Run,  run,  O,  run — 

Edg.  To  who,  my  lord  ? — Who  has  the  office  ? 
send 
Thy  token  of  reprieve. 

Edm.  Well  thought  on  ;  take  my  sword. 
Give  it  the  captain. 

Alb.  Haste  thee,  for  thy  life. 

\_Exit  Edgar. 
Edm.  He  hath   commission    from   thy   wife 
and  me 
To  hang  Cordelia  in  the  prison,  and 
To  lay  the  blame  upon  her  own  despair, 
That  she  fordid  herself. 

Alb.  The  gods  defend  her  !     Bear  him  hence 
awhile.  [Edmund  is  borne  off. 

Enter  Lear,  with  Cordelia  dead  in  his  arms  : 
Edgar,  Officer,  and  others. 
Lear.  Howl,   howl,  howl ! — O,  you  are  men 
of  stones  ; 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes  I'd  use  them  so 

•  The  (luartos,  0/  if  is  he. 

462 


That  heaven's  vault  should  crack  : — She  's  gone 

for  ever ! — 
I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives ; 
She 's  dead  as  earth  : — Lend  me  a  looking-glass  ; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone, 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

Ke7it.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end  ?  * 

Edg.  Or  image  of  that  horror  ? 
Alb.  Fall,  and  cease  ! 

Lear.  This  feather  stirs ;  she  lives !  if  it  be  so, 
It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Kent.  O  my  good  master  !   [^Kneeling. 

Lear.  Prithee,  away. 

Edg.  'Tis  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors 
all! 
I  mighthave  sav'd  her ;  now  she  's  gone  for  ever ! 
Cordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little.     Ha ! 
What  is't  thou  say'st? — Her  voice  was  ever  soft. 
Gentle,  and  low ;  an  excellent  thing  in  woman : — 
I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a  hanging  thee. 
Off.  'Tis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 
Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  faul- 

chion 
I  would  have  made  them  skip :  I  am  old  now. 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. — Who  are  you? 
Mine  eyes  are  not  o'  the   best : — I  '11  tell  you 
straight. 
Kent.  If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov'd  and 
hated. 
One  of  them  we  behold. 

Lear.  This  is  a  dull  sight.  Are  you  not  Kent  ? 
Kent.  The  same ; 

Your  servant   Kent:     Where   is  your  servant 
Caius  ? 
Lear.  He  's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that ; 
He  '11  strike,  and  quickly  too :  He  "s  dead  and 
rotten. 
Kent.  No,  my  good  lord;  lam  the  very  man; — 
Lear.  I  '11  see  that  straight. 
Kent.  That,  from  your  first  of  difference  and 
decay. 
Have  follow'd  your  sad  steps. 

Lear.  You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent.  Nor  no  man  else ;  all 's  cheerless,  dark, 
and  deadly. — 
Your  eldest  daughters  have  fore-done''  them- 
selves. 
And  desperately  are  dead. 

»  The  promis'd  end— the  end  of  the  world  foretold  in  the 
Scriptures.  The  "image  ofth.it  horror"  is  the  same  as 
"  the  great  doom's  image  "  of  Macbeth. 

t  Fure-dime— the  qna,rtos,fure-doom'd.  We  have  previously 
hadfor-did  used  in  the  same  sense  of  destroy. 


Act  v.] 


KING  LEAR. 


[SCKNK    111. 


Lear.  Ay,  so  I  think. 

Alb.  He  knows  not  what  he  says ;  and  vain  it  is 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edg.  Very  bootless. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Off.  Edmund  is  dead,  my  lord. 

Alb.  That  's  but  a  trifle  here. — 

You  lords,  and  noble  friends,  know  our  intent. 
What  comfort  to  this  great  decay  may  come 
Shall  be  applied :  For  us,  we  will  resign, 
During  the  life  of  this  old  majesty. 
To   him   our   absolute    power: — You,    to  your 
rights;  [7o  Edgar  awtZ  Kent. 

With  boot,  and  such  addition  as  your  honours 
Have  more  than  merited. — All  friends  shall  taste 
The  wages  of  their  virtue,  and  all  foes 
The  cup  of  their  deservings. — O,  see,  see! 

Lear.  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd !  "*  No,  no, 
no  life : 

*  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd.  Sir  Joshua  Keynolds,  whose 
taste  in  one  branch  of  art  entitles  him  to  the  greatest  consi- 
deration when  he  offers  an  opinion  upon  anotlier  branch, 
believes  that  Lear  applies  the  expression  literally  tohis  Fool, 
and  not  to  Cordelia.  Malone,  with  great  gravity,  says,  in 
controverting  tliis  opinion,  ■'  Lear  has  just  seen  his  daugliter 
hanged,  having  unfortunately  been  admitted  too  late  to  pre- 
serve her  life,  though  time  enough  to  p\inish  the  perpetrator 
of  the  act ;  but  we  have  no  authority  whatsoever  for  sup- 
posing his  Fool  hanged  also."  Malone  lias  also  sliovvn  that 
the  expressicm  was  used  by  Shakspere  in  other  places  as  a 
word  of  tenderness.  It  might,  indeed,  be  here  employed 
something  like  tlie  "  excellent  wretch"  of  Othello  ;  but  we 
cannot  avoid  thinking  that  Shakspere,  in  tliis  place,  meant  to 
express  a  peculiar  tenderness,  derived  from  Lear's  coiifnsed 
recollection  of  his  regard  for  liis  poor  follower,  the  Fool, 
whom  we  have  lost  after  the  third  act.  In  the  depth  of  his 
distress,  during  the  storm,  Lear  says — "  Poor  fool  and  knave, 
I  have  one  part  in  my  heart  tliat  's  sorry  yet  for  thee."  And 
now,  when  the  last  and  deepest  calamity  has  fallen  upon 
him,  liis  expressions  shape  themselves  out  of  the  indistinct- 
ness wiih  which  he  views  the  present  and  the  past,  and  Cor- 
delia is  his  "  poor  fool." 


Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  have  life. 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?     Thou  'It  come  no 

more. 
Never,  never,  never,  never,  never  ! — 
Pray  you  undo  this  button  :  Thank  you,  sir. — 
Do  you  see    this?    Look  on  her, — look, — her 

lips,— 
Look  there,  look  there! —  [ffe  dies. 

Edg.  He  faints ! — My  lord,  my  lord, — 

Kent.  Break,  heart ;  I  prithee,  break  ! 
Edg.  Look  up,  my  lord. 

Kent.  Vex  not  his  ghost :  O,  let  him  pass !  he 
hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

Edg.  He  is  gone,  indeed. 

Ke7it.  The  wonder  is  he  hath  endur'd  so  long  : 
He  but  usurp'd  his  life. 

Alb.  Bear   them  from  hence. — Our   present 
business 
Is  general  woe.     Friends  of  my  soul,  you  twain 
[To  Kent  a7id  Edgar. 
Rule  in  this  realm,  and  the  gor'd  state  sustain. 

Kent.  I  have  a  jovirney,  sir,  shortly  to  go ; 
My  master  calls  me,^ — I  must  not  say,  no. 
Alb.  The  weight  of   this  sad  time  we  must 
obey; 
Speak  what  we  feel,  not  what  we  ought  to  say. 
The  oldest  hath  borne  most:  we  that  are  young 
Shall  never  see  so  much,  nor  live  so  long. 

[^Exeunt,  with  a  dead  march.^ 

»  My  master  calls  me — the  quarto  has  the  line  thus — 

"  My  master  calls,  and  I  must  not  say  no." 
•>  Tliis  is  the  original  stage  direction. 


[Norman  Gateway,  Dover  Castle.] 


463 


[I.ear.     After  a  study  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.] 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


Criticism,  as  far  as  regards  the  very  highest  works  of  art,  must  always  be  a  failure.  What  criti- 
cism (and  in  that  term  we  include  description  and  analysis)  ever  helped  us  to  an  adequate  notion 
of  the  Belvedere  Apollo  or  the  Cartoons  of  Raffaelle  ?  We  may  try  to  apply  general  principles 
to  the  particular  instances,  as  far  as  regards  the  ideal  of  such  productions ;  or,  what  is  more  com- 
mon, we  may  seize  upon  the  salient  points  of  their  material  and  mechanical  excellencies.  If  we 
adopt  this  comparatively  easy  and  therefore  common  course,  criticism  puts  on  that  technical  and 
pedantic  form  which  is  the  besetting  sin  of  all  who  attempt  to  make  the  great  works  of  painting 
or  scvdpture  comprehensible  by  the  medium  of  words.  If  we  take  the  more  difficidt  path,  we  are 
quickly  involved  in  the  vague  and  obscure,  and  end  in  explanations  without  explanation.  "  The 
Correggiescity  of  Correggio,"  after  all,  and  in  sober  truth,  tells  as  much  as  the  critics  have  told  us. 
And  is  it  different  with  poetry  of  the  very  highest  order?  What  criticism,  for  example,  can  make 
the  harmony  of  a  very  great  poem  comprehensible  to  those  who  have  not  studied  such  a  poem  again 
and  again,  till  all  its  scattered  lights,  and  all  its  broad  masses  of  shadow,  are  blended  into  one 
pervading  tint  upon  which  the  mind  reposes,  through  the  influence  of  that  mighty  power  by  which 
the  force  of  contrast  is  subjected  to  the  higher  force  of  unity?  Criticism  may,  to  a  certain  extent, 
stimulate  us  to  the  appreciation  of  the  great  parts  of  the  highest  creations  of  poetical  genius  ;  but 
in  the  exact  degree  in  which  it  is  successful  in  leading  to  a  comprehension  of  details  is  it  injurious 
to  the  higher  purpose  of  its  vocation — that  of  illuminating  a  whole.  It  is  precisely  the  same  with 
regard  to  the  modes  in  which  even  the  most  tasteful  minds  attempt  to  convey  impressions  to  others 
of  the  effects  of  real  scenery.  There  are  probably  recollections  lingering  around  most  of  us  of 
some  combination  of  natural  grandeur  or  beauty  which  can  never  be  forgotten — which  has  moved 
us  even  to  tears.  What  can  we  describe  of  such  scenes?  Take  a  common  instance — a  calm  river 
sleeping  in  the  moonlight — familiar  hills,  in  their  massy  outlines  looking  mountain-like — the  well- 
known  village  on  the  river's  bank,  giving  forth  its  cottage  lights,  each  shining  as  a  star  in  the 
depth  of  the  transparent  stream.  The  description  of  such  a  scene  becomes  merely  picturesque. 
It  is  the  harmony  which  cannot  be  described — the  harmony  which  results  from  some  iiappy  com- 
binations not  always,  and  indeed  rarely,  present — which  has  thus  invested  the  commonest  things 
464 


KING  LEAR. 

with  life-lasting  impressions.  The  "prevailing  poet,"  in  his  great  productions,  converts  what  is 
accidental  in  nature  into  a  principle  in  art.  But  the  workings  of  the  principle  must,  to  a  great 
extent,  he  felt  and  understood  rather  than  analysed  and  described. 

Hazlitt,  applying  liimself  to  write  a  set  criticism  upon  Lear,  says — "  We  wish  that  we  could 
pass  this  play  over,  and  say  nothing  about  it.  All  that  we  can  say  must  fall  far  short  of  the  sub- 
ject, or  even  of  what  we  ourselves  conceive  of  it.  To  attempt  to  give  a  description  of  the  play 
itself,  or  of  its  effect  upon  the  mind,  is  mere  impertinence."  This  is  not  affectation.  The  "  effect 
upon  the  mind"  which  Lear  produces  is  the  result  of  combinations  too  subtle  to  be  described — 
almost  so  to  be  defined  to  ourselves;  and  yet,  to  continue  the  sentence  of  Hazlitt,  "  we  must  say 
something." 

There  is  an  English  word-joiner — author  we  will  not  call  him — who  has  had  the  temerity  to 
accomplish  two  things,  either  of  which  would  have  been  enough  to  have  conferred  upon  him  a  bad 
immortality.  Nahum  Tate  has  succeeded,  to  an  extent  which  defies  all  competition,  in  degrading 
the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  Lear  of  Shakspere,  to  the  condition  of  being  tolerated,  and  perhaps 
even  admired,  by  the  most  dull,  gross,  and  anti-poetical  capacity.  These  were  not  easy  tasks;  but 
Nahum  Tate  has  enjoyed  more  than  a  century  of  honour  for  his  labours;  and  his  new  versions  of 
the  Psalms  are  still  sung  on  (like  the  shepherd  in  Arcadia  piped)  as  if  they  would  never  be  old, 
and  his  Lear  is  still  the  Lear  of  the  playhouse,  with  one  solitary  exception  of  a  modem  heresy  in 
favour  of  Shakspere.  To  have  enjoyed  so  extensive  and  lasting  a  popularity,  Nahum  Tate  must 
have  possessed  more  than  ordinary  power  in  the  reduction  of  the  highest  things  to  the  vulgar 
standard.  He  set  about  the  metamorphosis  of  Lear  with  a  bold  hand,  nothing  doubting  that  he 
had  an  especial  vocation  to  the  office  of  tumbling  that  barbaric  pile  into  ruins,  for  the  purpose  of 
building  up  something  compact,  and  pretty,  and  modern,  after  the  fashion  of  the  architecture  of 
his  own  age.  He  talks,  indeed,  of  his  feat  in  the  way  in  which  the  court  jeweller  talks  at  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  reign,  when  he  pulls  the  crown  to  pieces,  and  re-arranges  the  emeralds  and  rubies 
of  our  Edwards  and  Henries  according  to  the  newest  taste.  "  It  is  a  heap  of  jewels,  unstrung  and 
unpolished,  yet  so  dazzling  in  their  disorder  that  I  soon  perceived  I  had  seized  a  treasure."  We 
are  grateful,  however,  to  Tate  for  what  he  has  done;  for  he  has  enabled  us  to  say  something  about 
Shakspere's  Leai*,  when,  without  him,  we  might  have  shrunk  into  "expressive  silence."  We  pro- 
pose to  show  what  the  Lear  is,  in  some  of  its  highest  attributes,  by  an  investigation  of  the  process 
by  which  one  of  the  feeblest  and  most  prosaic  of  verse-makers  has  turned  it  into  something  essen- 
tially different.  Tate  thus  becomes  a  standard  by  which  to  measure  Shakspere;  and  we  are  relieved 
from  the  oppressive  sense  of  the  vast  by  the  juxta-position  of  the  minute.  We  judge  of  the  height 
of  the  pyramids  by  the  scale  of  the  human  atoms  at  their  base. 

Shelley,  in  his  eloquent  '  Defence  of  Poetry,'  recently  published  in  his  '  Posthumous  Essays,'  &c., 
has  stated  the  grounds  for  his  belief  that  the  Lear  of  Shakspere  may  sustain  a  comparison  with  the 
master-pieces  of  the  Greek  tragedy.  "  The  modern  practice  of  blending  comedy  with  tragedy, 
though  liable  to  great  abuse  in  point  of  practice,  is  undoubtedly  an  extension  of  the  dramatic  circle  ; 
but  the  comedy  should  be  as  in  King  Lear,  universal,  ideal,  and  sublime.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  in- 
tervention of  this  principle  which  determines  the  balance  in  favour  of  King  Lear  against  the 
CEdipus  Tyrannus  or  the  Agamemnon,  or,  if  you  will,  the  trilogies  with  which  they  are  con- 
nected ;  unless  the  intense  power  of  the  choral  poetry,  especially  that  of  the  latter,  should  be  con- 
sidered as  restoring  the  equilibrium.  King  Lear,  if  it  can  sustain  that  comparison,  may  be  judged 
to  be  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the  dramatic  art  existing  in  the  world."  We  can  understand 
this  now.  But  if  any  writer  before  the  commencement  of  the  present  century,  and  indeed  long 
after,  had  talked  of  the  comedy  of  Lear  as  being  "  universal,  ideal,  and  sublime,"  and  had  chosen 
that  as  the  excellence  to  balance  against  "  the  intense  power  of  the  choral  poetry"  of  iEschylus  and 
Sophocles,  he  would  have  been  referred  to  the  authority  of  Voltaire,  who,  in  his  letter  to  the 
Academy,  describes  such  works  of  Shakspere  as  forming  "  an  obscure  chaos,  composed  of  murders 
and  buffooneries,  of  heroism  and  meanness." 

In  certain  schools  of  criticism,  even  yet,  the  notion  that  Lear  "  may  be  judged  to  be  the  most 
perfect  specimen  of  the  dramatic  art  existing  in  the  woi'ld"  would  be  ti-eated  as  a  mere  vision- 
ary conceit ;  and  we  should  still  be  reminded  that  Shakspere  was  a  "  wild  and  irregular  genius," 
producing  these  results  because  he  could  not  help  it.  In  France  are  still  heard  the  feeble  echoes 
of  the  contest  between  the  disciples  of  the  romantic  and  the  classic  schools.     M.  Guizot  stated, 

Traoedies.— Vol.  I.  3  0  ^"•' 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

some  twenty  years  ago,  with  his  usual  acuteuess  and  good  sense,  some  of  the  mistakes  into  which 
the  opponents  of  the  romantic  school  had  fallen,  from  not  perceiving  that  the  productions  of  that 
school  contained  within  themselves  a  principle  of  art.  "  This  intellectual  ferment  can  never  cease, 
as  long  as  the  question  shall  be  mooted  as  a  contest  between  science  and  barbarism — the  beauties 
of  order  and  the  irregular  influences  of  disorder ;  as  long  as  we  shall  obstinately  refuse  to  see,  in 
the  system  of  which  Shakspere  has  traced  the  first  outlines,  nothing  more  than  a  liberty  without 
restraint — an  indefinite  latitude,  which  lies  open  as  much  to  the  freaks  of  the  imagination  as  to  the 
course  of  genius.  If  the  romantic  system  has  its  beauties,  it  has  necessarily  its  art  and  its  rules. 
Nothing  is  beautiful  for  man  which  does  not  owe  its  effect  to  certain  combinations,  of  which  our 
judgment  may  always  disclose  to  us  the  secret  when  our  emotions  have  borne  witness  to  their 
power.  The  employment  of  these  combinations  constitutes  art.  Shakspere  had  his  own  art.  To 
discover  it  in  his  works  we  must  examine  the  means  which  he  used,  and  the  results  to  which  he 
aspired."*  These  combinations,  of  which  Guizot  speaks,  were  as  unknown  to  what  has  been  called 
the  Augustan  age  of  English  literature  as  the  properties  of  electro-magnetism ;  and  poor  Nahum 
Tate  did  not  unfitly  represent  his  age  when  he  said  of  Lear,  "  It  is  a  heap  of  jewels,  unstnmg  and 
luipolished,  yet  so  dazzling  in  their  disorder  that  I  soon  perceived  I  had  seized  a  treasure."  The 
principle  of  appropriation  here  is  exquisite.  But,  after  all,  we  fancy  that  Tate  was  something  like 
the  cock  in  the  fable,  who,  having  found  the  jewel,  in  his  secret  heart  wished  it  had  been  a  grain  of 
barley.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  set  to  v;ork  in  good  earnest  in  the  stringing  and  polishing  process. 
Let  us  proceed  to  examine  the  character  of  his  workmanship. 

Coleridge  has  remarked  emphatically,  what  every  diligent  student  of  Shakspere  must  have  been 
impressed  with,  the  striking  judgment  which  he  displays  in  the  management  of  his  first  scenes. 
The  first  scene  of  Lear  is  very  short,  perfectly  simple,  has  no  elaborate  descriptions  of  character, 
and  contains  only  a  slight  and  incidental  notice  of  the  events  upon  which  the  drama  is  to  turn. 
Of  course  Tate  rejected  this  scene;  and,  without  the  necessary  preparation  of  the  dialogue  between 
Kent  and  Gloster,  he  brings  at  once  Edmund  before  us  in  the  soliloquy,  "  Thovi,  nature,  art  my 
goddess."  Shakspere,  in  his  soliloquies,  makes  his  characters  pursue  a  certain  train  of  ideas  to  a 
conclusion ;  and  by  causing  them  to  think  aloud,  he  is  enabled,  without  the  slightest  violation  of 
propriety,  to  give  the  audience  a  due  impression  of  their  latent  motives.  He  very  rarely  employs 
this  expedient,  but  he  never  employs  it  in  vain,  or  goes  beyond  its  legitimate  use.  We  have  an 
example  in  the  soliloquy  of  lago  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  of  Othello ;  and  the  soliloquy  of 
Edmund  in  the  second  scene  of  Lear  has  precisely  the  same  object  in  view.  Tate,  not  under- 
standing the  art  of  Shakspere,  and  having  no  dramatic  art  in  himself,  makes  the  soliloquy  an  in- 
strument for  telling  the  audience  what  has  happened  ;  and  instead  of  exhibiting  the  management 
by  which  Gloster  is  made  to  distrust  and  hate  Edgar,  he  gives  us  a  narrative  of  the  affair,  which 
Edmund  tells  to  the  audience  under  the  pretence  of  talking  to  himself: — 

"  With  success 
I've  practis'd  yet  on  both  their  easy  natiires. 
Here  comes  the  old  man,  chaf'd  with  the  iaformation 
Which  hist  I  forg'd  against  my  brother  Edgar ; 
A  tale  so  plausible,  so  boldly  iitter'd. 
And  ht'ighten'd  by  such  lurky  accidents. 
That  now  the  slightest  circumstance  confirms  him, 
And  base-born  Edmund,  spite  of  law,  inherits." 

It  is  no  part  of  the  plan  of  this  notice  to  point  out  the  differences  between  the  language  of  Tate  and 
the  language  of  Shakspere.  It  is  with  the  conduct  of  the  drama  only  that  we  wish  to  deal.  Gloster, 
of  course,  after  this  preparation,  enters  in  a  furious  passion. 

The  main  business  of  the  tragedy,  by  Tate's  arrangement,  has  been  thus  made  subordinate  to 
the  secondary  plot.     But  Lear  is  not  quite  forgotten  :  Gloster  saj's  to  Kent, — 

"  My  lord,  you  wait  the  liing,  who  comes  resolv'd 
To  quit  the  toils  of  empire,  and  divide 
His  realms  amongst  his  daughters.     Hi'av'n  succeeil  it, 
Kut  much  1  fear  the  change." 


To  which  Kent  replies, — 


*  Vie  de  Shakspeare. 


466 


KING  LEAR. 

"  I  grieve  to  see  him. 

With  such  wild  starts  of  passion  hourly  seiz'd 
As  render  majesty  beneatli  itself." 

We  may  be  sure  that  if  a  dramatic  purpose  would  have  been  served  by  a  descriijllou  of  the  temper  of 
Leai",  instead  of  an  exhibition  of  it,  Shakspere  would  have  introduced  such  a  description.  But  that 
was  not  his  art ;  it  was  for  the  jewel-stringer  to  convey  impressions  by  such  clumsy  and  common- 
place means.  We  have  one  more  new  combination  to  notice  in  Tate's  introductory  scene — Edgar 
and  Cordelia  in  love.  Of  the  results  of  this  combination  we  shall  have  presently  to  speak.  In  the 
mean  time,  let  the  lovers  explain  themselves  thi'ough  the  nine  lines  in  the  preparation  of  which  Tate 
has  put  out  his  poetical  strength  : — 

"  Edgar.  Cordelia,  royal  fair,  turn  yet  once  more, 
And  ere  successful  Burgundy  receive 
The  treasure  of  thy  beauties  from  the  king. 
Ere  happy  Burgundy  for  ever  fold  thee, 
Cast  back  one  pitying  look  on  wretched  Edgar. 
"  Cord.  Alas  !  what  would  the  wretched  Edgar  with 
The  more  unfortunate  Cordelia  ? 
Who,  in  obedience  to  a  father's  will. 
Flies  from  her  Edgar's  cirms  to  Burgundy's." 

The  second  scene  of  Tate,  like  the  second  scene  of  Shakspere,  exhibits  the  trial  by  Lear  of  his 
daughters'  affections,  and  the  subsequent  division  of  the  kingdom.  It  was  perfectly  clear  that  in 
changing  the  dramatic  situation  of  Cordelia,  Tate  would  destroy  her  character.  But  it  is  not  within 
the  range  of  human  ingenuity  to  conjecture  how  effectually  he  has  contrived  to  render  one  of  the 
loveliest  of  Shakspere's  creations  not  only  uninteresting,  but  positively  repulsive — he  has  produced 
a  selfish  and  dissimulating  Cordelia.     These  are  the  first  words  which  she  utters : — 

"  Now  comes  my  trial.     How  am  I  distvess'd 

That  must  with  cold  speech  tempt  the  choleric  king 
Rather  to  leave  me  dowerless,  than  condemn  me 
To  Burgundy's  embraces!" 

"  Of  the  heavenly  beauty  of  soul  of  Cordelia,  pronounced  in  so  few  words,  I  will  not  venture  to 
speak."  This  was  the  impression  which  Shakspere's  Cordelia  produced  upon  Schlegel.  In  the 
whole  range  of  the  Shaksperian  drama  there  is  nothing  more  extraordinary  than  the  effect  upon 
the  mind  of  the  character  of  Cordelia.  Mrs.  Jameson  has  truly  said,  "  Everything  in  her  seems  to 
lie  beyond  our  view,  and  affects  us  in  a  manner  which  we  feel  rather  than  perceive."  In  the  first 
act  she  has  only  forty-three  lines  assigned  to  her :  she  does  not  appear  again  till  the  fourth  act,  in 
the  fourth  scene  of  which  she  has  twenty-four  lines,  and,  in  the  seventh,  thirty-seven.  In  the  fifth 
act  she  has  five  lines.  Yet  during  the  whole  progress  of  the  play  we  can  never  forget  her ;  and, 
after  its  melancholy  close,  she  lingers  about  our  recollections  as  if  we  had  seen  some  being  more 
beautiful  and  purer  than  a  thing  of  earth,  who  had  communicated  with  us  by  a  higher  medium 
than  that  of  words.  And  yet  she  is  no  mere  abstraction  ; — she  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  per- 
sonification of  the  holiness  of  womanhood.  She  is  a  creatm-e  formed  for  all  sympathies,  moved  by  all 
tenderness,  prompt  for  all  duty,  prepared  for  all  suffering ;  but  she  cannot  talk  of  what  she  is,  and 
what  she  purposes.     The  King  of  France  describes  the  apparent  reserve  of  her  character  as 

"  A  tardiness  in  nature, 
Wliich  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 
That  it  intends  to  do." 

She  herself  says, — 

"  If  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  art. 
To  speak,  and  purpose  not ;  since  what  I  well  intend, 
I  '11  dot  before  I  speak." 

But  the  conception  of  a  character  that  should  fill  our  minds  without  much  talk,  and  withal  mag- 
niloquent talk,  was  something  too  ethereal  for  Tate,  the  jewel-polisher  :  so  Cordelia  is  turned  into  a 
French  intrigante.  She  does  not  profess  as  her  sisters  professed,  not  because  she  wanted  the 
"glib  and  oily  art,"  but  because  she  desired  to  accomplish  a  secretpurpose,  that  was  to  becarried  by 
silence  better  than  by  words — she  would  lose  her  dower  that  she  might  marry  Edgar.  One  more 
specimen  of  the  Tatification  of  Cordelia,  and  we  have  done.  The  love-scenes,  be  it  understood,  go 
forward ;   and   in  the   third  act  Cordelia,  herself  wandering  about,  encounters  Edgar  in  his  mad 

467 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 

disguise.  The  "  taidiness  in  nature  "  of  Shakspere  is  thus  interpreted  in  the  production  wliich 
"  Garrick  and  his  followers,  the  showmen  of  the  scene,"  have  inflicted  upon  us  almost  up  to  the 
present  hour,  imder  the  sanction  of  Dr.  Johnson  : — 

"  Cord.  Come  to  my  arms,  thmi  dearest,  liest  of  men. 

And  take  the  kindest  vows  that  e'er  were  spoke 

By  a  jirotfsting  maid. 

"  Edg.  Is 't  possible? 

"  Cord.  l?y  the  dear  vital  stream  that  bathes  my  heart. 

These  liallow'd  rags  of  thine,  and  naked  virtue, 

Tliese  abject  tassels,  these  fantastic  shreds. 

To  me  are  dearer  than  the  richest  pomp 

Of  purpled  monarchs." 

Need  we  exhibit  more  of  the  Cordelia  which  is  not  Shakspere's? 

The  mixed  character  of  Shakspere's  Lear  has  been  admirably  dissected  by  Coleridge  : — "  The 
strange,  yet  by  no  means  unnatural,  mixture  of  selfishness,  sensibility,  and  habit  of  feeling,  derived 
from,  and  fostered  by,  the  particular  rank  and  usages  of  the  individual ;  the  intense  desire  of  being 
intensely  beloved, — selfish,  and  yet  characteristic  of  the  selfishness  of  a  loving  and  kindly  nature 
alone ; — the  self-supportless  leaning  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast ; — the  craving  after  sympathy 
with  a  prodigal  disinterestedness,  frustrated  by  its  own  ostentation,  and  the  mode  and  nature  of  its 
claims; — the  anxiety,  the  distrust,  the  jealousy,  which  more  or  less  accompany  all  selfish  affections, 
and  are  amongst  the  surest  contradistinctions  of  mere  fondness  from  true  love,  and  which  originate 
Lear's  eager  wish  to  enjoy  his  daughters'  violent  professions,  whilst  the  inveterate  habits  of  sove- 
reignty convert  the  wish  into  claim  and  positive  right,  and  an  incompliance  with  it  into  crime  and 
treason  ; — these  facts,  these  passions,  these  moral  verities,  on  which  the  whole  tragedy  is  founded* 
are  all  prepared  for,  and  will  to  the  retrospect  be  found  implied,  in  the  first  four  or  five  lines  of  the 
play."  They  are  implied,  certainly,  but  the  character  which  they  make  up  is  not  described  by 
Shakspere.  When  Regan  and  Goneril  speak  slightingly  of  their  father,  immediately  after  he  has 
been  lavishing  his  kingdom  upon  them,  it  is  not  the  object  of  the  poet  to  make  us  understand  Lear, 
but  to  make  us  understand  Regan  and  Goneril.  This,  again,  was  Shakspere's  art : — Tate,  the  re- 
presentative of  the  vulgar  notion  of  art,  must  have  a  defined  character — something  positive,  some- 
thing generic — a  bad  man,  a  good  man — a  mild  man,  a  passionate  man — a  good  son,  a  cruel  son. 
Upon  this  principle  the  Lear  of  Tate  is  the  choleric  king.  Because  Goneril  characteristically  speaks 
of  "the  unruly  waywardness  that  infirm  and  choleric  years  bring  with  them,"  Gloster,  in  Tate,  is 
made  to  say  of  Lear, — 

"  Yet  has  his  temper  ever  been  unfix'd, 
Chol'ric  and  sudden  ;" 

and,  as  if  this  were  not  enough  to  disturb  an  audience  in  the  proper  comprehension  of  the  real  Lear, 
we  must  have  Cordelia  call  him  "  the  choleric  king,"  and,  last  of  all,  Lear  himself  must  exclaim,  in 
the  trial-scene,  "  'tis  said  that  I  am  choleric."  And  now,  then,  that  we  have  got  a  choleric  king — 
a  simple,  unmixed,  ranting,  roaring,  choleric  king,  he  is  in  a  fit  condition  to  be  stirred  up  by  "the 
showmen  of  the  scene."  Charles  Lamb  would  be  immortal  as  a  critic  if  he  had  only  written  these 
words  : — "  Tate  has  put  his  hook  in  the  nostrils  of  this  leviathan,  for  Garrick  and  his  followers, 
the  showmen  of  the  scene,  to  draw  the  mighty  beast  about  more  easily."  All  the  wonderful  grada- 
tions of  his  character  are  utterly  destroyed  ; — all  the  thin  partitions  which  separate  passion  from 
wildness,  and  wildness  from  insanity,  and  insanity  from  a  partial  restoration  to  the  most  intense  of 
human  feelings, — a  father's  concentrated  love ; — all  these  traces  of  what  Shakspere  only  could  effect, 
are  utterly  destroyed  by  the  stage  conception  of  Lear,  such  as  has  been  endured  amongst  us  for 
more  than  a  century.  When  the  "  showmen  "  banished  the  Fool,  they  rendered  it  impossible  that 
the  original  nature  of  Lear  should  be  understood.  It  is  the  Fool  who  interprets  to  us  the  old 
man's  sensitive  tenderness  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  impatience.  He  cannot  bear  to  hear  that  "the 
Fool  hath  much  pined  away." — "  No  more  of  that,  I  have  noted  it  well."  From  the  Fool,  Lear 
can  bear  to  hear  truth;  his  jealous  pride  is  not  alarmed :  he  indeed  calls  him  "  a  pestilent  gall," 
"  a  bitter  fool ;"  but  the 

"  Poor,  infirm,  weak,  and  despis'd  old  man," 
in  the  depths  of  his  misery,  having  scarcely  anything  in  the  world  to  love  but  the  Fool,  thus  clings 
to  him : — 

"  My  wits  begin  to  turn. — 
Come  on,  mv  boy  :  How  dost,  my  boy  ?     Art  cold  ? 

468 


KING  LEAR. 

I  am  cold  mysill". — Where  id  this  straw,  my  fellow  ? 
The  alt  of  our  necessities  is  stranfje, 

That  can  make  vile  Ihiujjs  precious.     Come,  your  hovel  ; 
Poor  fool  and  knave,  I  have  one  part  in  my  heart 
That's  sorry  yet  for  thee." 

And  all  this  is  gone  in  the  stage  Lear.  The  "  universal,  ideal,  and  sublime"  comedy,  of  which  the 
Fool  is  the  principal  exponent,  would  have  been  incomprehensible  to  the  Augustan  age.  We  are 
quite  sure  that  Tate  would  have  got  rid  of  the  assumed  madness  of  Edgar,  if  he  had  not  found  it 
convenient  for  tlie  purpose  of  tacking  a  love-scene  to  it.  As  it  is,  he  has  brought  the  mad  Tom 
and  the  mad  king  into  jtixta-position.  We  do  not  suspect  Tate  of  comprehending  the  metaphysical 
principle  upon  which  Shakspere  worked,  and  which  Coleridge  has  so  well  expounded  :  — "  Edgar's 
assumed  madness  serves  the  great  purpose  of  taking  off  part  of  the  shock  which  would  otherwise 
be  caused  by  the  true  madness  of  Lear,  and  further  displays  the  profound  difference  between  the 
two.  In  every  attempt  at  representing  madness  throughout  the  whole  range  of  dramatic  literature, 
with  the  single  exception  of  Lear,  it  is  mere  light-headedness,  as  especially  in  Otway.  In  Edgar's 
ravings,  Shakspeare  all  the  while  lets  you  see  a  fixed  purpose,  a  practical  end  in  view  ;  in  Lear's 
there  is  only  tlie  brooding  of  the  one  anguish,  an  eddy  without  progression."  Tate  has  left  us  this 
contrast ;  but  he  has  taken  away  the  Fool,  which  completes  the  wonderful  power  of  the  third  act 
of  Shakspere's  Lear.  The  Fool,  as  well  as  Edgar,  takes  off  part  of  the  shock  which  would  other- 
wise be  caused  by  the  madness  of  Lear,  whilst  he  yet  contributes  to  the  completeness  of  that 
moral  chaos  which  Shakspere  has  represented — "  all  external  nature  in  a  storm,  all  moral  nature 
convulsed."  A  writer  of  very  rare  depth  and  discrimination  has  thus  described  these  scenes  of 
which  Edgar  and  the  Fool  make  up  such  important  accessories  : — "  The  two  characters,  father  and 
king,  so  high  to  our  imagination  and  love,  blended  in  the  reverend  image  of  hear— both  in  their 
destitution,  yet  both  in  their  height  of  greatness — the  spirit  blighted  and  yet  undepressed — the  wits 
gone,  and  yet  the  moral  wisdom  of  a  good  heart  left  unstained,  almost  unobscured — the  wild  raging 
of  the  elements,  joined  with  human  outrage  and  violence  to  persecute  the  helpless,  unresisting, 
almost  unoffending  sufferer — and  he  himself  in  the  midst  of  all  imaginable  misery  and  desolation, 
descanting  upon  himself,  on  the  whirlwinds  that  drive  around  him,  and  then  turning  in  tenderness 
to  some  of  the  wild  motley  associations  of  sufferers  among  whom  he  stands — all  this  is  not  like 
what  has  been  seen  on  any  stage,  perhaps  in  any  reality ;  but  it  has  made  a  world  to  our  ima- 
gination about  one  single  imaginary  individual,  such  as  draws  the  reverence  and  sympathy  which 
would  seem  to  belong  properly  only  to  living  men.  It  is  like  the  remembrance  of  some  wild  perturbed 
scene  of  real  life.  Everything  is  perfectly  woful  in  this  world  of  woe.  The  very  assumed  madness 
of  Edgar,  which,  if  the  story  of  Edgar  stood  alone,  would  be  insufferable,  and  would  utterly  degrade 
him  to  us,  seems,  associated  as  he  is  with  Lear,  to  come  within  the  consecration  of  Lear's  madness. 
It  agrees  with  all  that  is  brought  together  ; — the  night — the  storms — the  houselessness — Gloster 
with  his  eyes  put  out — the  Fool — the  semblance  of  a  madman,  and  Lear  in  his  madness, — are  all 
bound  together  by  a  strange  kind  of  sympathy,  confusion  in  the  elements  of  nature,  of  human 
society,  and  the  human  soid  !  Throughout  all  the  play  is  there  not  sublimity  felt  amidst  the  conti- 
nual presence  of  all  kinds  of  disorder  and  confusion  in  the  natural  and  moral  world ; — a  continual 
consciousness  of  eternal  order,  law,  and  good  ?     This  it  is  that  so  exalts  it  in  our  eyes."* 

The  love-scene  between  Edgar  and  Cordelia,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act  of  Tate's  Lear, 
was  an  assurance,  under  the  hand  and  seal  of  Tate,  that  the  play  would  end  happily.  He  might 
be  constrained,  in  the  impossibility  of  wholly  destroying  Shakspere,  to  exhibit  to  us  some  of  the 
most  terrific  conflicts  of  human  passion,  and  the  most  striking  displays  of  human  suffering.  He 
could  not  utterly  conceal  the  terrible  workings  of  the  mind  of  Lear,  which  had  been  laid  bare  by 
the  "  explosions  of  his  passion."  But  he  takes  care  to  let  it  be  understood  that  there  is  nothing 
real  in  this  ;  that  all  will  be  right  in  the  end  ;  that,  though  the  flames  rage,  the  house  is  insured  ; 
that  a  wedding  and  a  dance  will  terminate  the  play  much  better  than  the  "  dead  march"  of  Shak- 
spere. "  Cordelia,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  from  the  time  of  Tate,  has  always  retired  with  victory 
and  felicity.  And  if  my  sensations  could  add  anything  to  the  general  suffrage,  I  might  relate,  I 
was  many  years  ago  so  shocked  by  Cordelia's  death,  that  I  know  not  whether  I  ever  endured  to  read 
again  the  last  scenes  of  the  play  till  I  undertook  to  revise  them  as  an  editor." 

•  '  Blackwood's  Ma^^aziuc,"  vol.  v. 

469 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTICE. 


This  was  a  bold  or  a  lazy  avowal  in  Johnson  ;  for  Aristotle  describes  the  popular  admiration  of 
the  tragedy  which  ends  happily  for  the  good  characters,  and  fatally  for  the  bad,  as  a  result  of  the 
"  weakness  of  the  spectators  ;"  *  and  though  Johnson  vigorously  attacked  Aristotle's  Unities — or 
rather  the  doctrine  of  the  Unities  imputed  to  Aristotle— the  good  critic  must  have  been  sleeping 
when  he  gave  his  voice  to  the  general  suffrage  at  the  risk  of  being  accounted  weak.  Johnson  was 
too  clever  a  man  not  to  know  that  he  lost  something  by  not  reading  "  the  last  scenes"  of  Shak- 
spere's  Lear ;  and  we  have  considerable  doubts  whether  he  ever  looked  into  the  last  scenes  of  Tate's 
Lear.  Carrying  the  principle  to  the  end  with  which  we  set  out,  we  venture  to  print  the  last  scene 
of  each  writer  in  apposition ;  and  we  ask  our  readers  to  apply  the  scale  of  Tate,  in  the  manner 
which  we  have  indicated,  to  the  admeasurement  of  Shakspere : — 


[Tate.] 

"  Enter  Albany,  Kent,  and  Knights  to  Lear  and 
Cordelia  in  Prison. 

Lear.  Who  are  you  ? 
My  eyes  are  none  o'th'  best,  I  '11  tell  you  straight: 
Oh,  Albany  !     Well,  sir,  we  are  your  captives. 
And  you  are  come  to  see  death  pass  upon  us. 

Why  this  delay  ? Or,  is't  your  highness'  pleasure 

To  give  us  first  the  torture  ?     Say  you  so  ? 
Why  here 's  old  Kent,  and  I,  as  tough  a  pair 
As  e'er  bore  tyrant  stroke  ; — but  my  Cordelia, 
My  poor  Cordelia  here,  O  pity 

Alb.  Thou  injur'd  majesty. 
The  wheel  of  fortune  now  has  made  her  circle. 
And  blessings  yet  stand  'twixt  thy  grave  and  thee. 

Lear.  Com'st  thou,  iiiliuman  lord,  to  sooth  us  back 
To  a  fool's  paradise  of  hope,  to  make 
Our  doom  more  wretched  ?     Go  to  ;  we  are  too  well 
Acquainted  with  misfortune,  to  be  guild 
With  lying  hope;  no,  we  will  hope  no  more. 
•        •••** 

Alb.  Since  then  my  injuries,  Lear,  fall  in  with  thine, 
I  have  resolv'd  tlie  same  redress  for  both. 

Kent.  What  says  my  lord  ? 

Curd.  Speak ;  for  methought  I  heard 
The  charming  voice  of  a  descending  god. 

Alb.  The  troops  by  Edmund  rais'd,  I  have  disbanded: 
Those  that  remain  are  under  my  command. 
What  comfort  may  be  brought  to  cheer  your  age. 
And  heal  your  savage  wrongs,  shall  be  apply'd ; 
For  to  your  majesty  we  do  resign 
Your  kingdom,  save  what  part  yourself  conferr'd 
On  us  in  marringe. 

Kent.  Hear  you  that,  my  liege? 

Cord.  Then  there  are  gods,  and  virtue  is  their  care. 

Lear.  Is't  possible  ? 
Let  the  spheres  stop  their  course,  the  sun  make  halt. 
The  winds  be  hush'd,  the  seas  and  fountains  rest. 
All  nature  pause,  and  listen  to  the  change  I 
Where  is  my  Kent,  my  Caius  ? 

Kent.  Here,  my  liege. 

Lear.  Why,  I  have  news  that  will  recall  thy  youth ; 
Ha  !  didst  thou  hear  't  ? — or  did  th'  inspiring  gods 
Whisi>er  to  me  alone  ? — Old  Lear  shall  be 
A  king  again. 

Kent.  The  prince,  that  like  a  god  has  pow'r,  has  said  it. 

Lear.  Cordelia  then  shall  be  a  <iueen,  mark  that; 
Cordelia  shall  be  ((ueeu  :  w  inds,  catcli  the  sound. 
And  bear  it  on  your  rosy  wings  to  heav'n, 
Cordelia  is  a  queen. 

Alb.  Look,  sir,  where  pious  Edgar  comes. 
Leading  his  eyeless  father.     O  my  liege. 
His  wond'rous  story  well  deserves  your  leisure; 
What  he  has  done  and  suffer'd  for  your  sake. 
What  for  the  fair  Cordelia's. 


[Shakspere.] 

"Enter  Lear,  with  Cordelia  dead  in  his  arms ;  Edoar, 
Officer,  and  others. 

Lear.  Howl,  howl,  howl  I— O,  you  are  men  of  stones ; 
Had  I  your  tongues  and  eyes  I  'd  use  them  so 
That  heaven's  vault  should  crack  :— She 's  gone  for  ever  !— 
I  know  when  one  is  dead,  and  when  one  lives; 
She  's  dead  as  earth  :— Lend  me  a  looking-glass  ; 
If  that  her  breath  will  mist  or  stain  the  stone. 
Why,  then  she  lives. 

Kent.  Is  this  the  promis'd  end  ? 

Edg.  Or  image  of  that  horror  ? 

Alb.  Fall,  and  cease! 

Ijear.  This  feather  stirs ;  she  lives !  if  it  be  so. 
It  is  a  chance  which  does  redeem  all  sorrows 
That  ever  I  have  felt. 

Kent.  O  my  good  master  I  [Kneeling. 

Lear.  Prithee,  away. 

Edg.  'Tis  noble  Kent,  your  friend. 

Lear.  A  plague  upon  you,  murderers,  traitors  all  1 
I  might  have  sav'd  her  ;  now  she's  gone  for  ever  ! — 
(.'ordelia,  Cordelia,  stay  a  little.     Ha! 
What  is  't  thou  say'st  ? — Her  voice  was  ever  soft. 
Gentle,  and  low ;  an  excellent  thing  in  woman  : — 
I  kill'd  the  slave  that  was  a  hanging  thee. 

Off.  'Tis  true,  my  lords,  he  did. 

Lear.  Did  I  not,  fellow  ? 

I  have  seen  the  day,  with  my  good  biting  faulchion 
I  would  have  made  them  skip;  I  am  old  now. 
And  these  same  crosses  spoil  me. — Wlio  are  you  ? 
Mine  eyes  are  not  o'  the  best: — I  '11  tell  you  straight. 

Kent.  If  fortune  brag  of  two  she  lov'd  and  hated. 
One  of  them  we  behold. 

Lear.  This  is  a  dull  sight.    Are  you  not  Kent? 

Kent.  The  same ; 

Your  servant  Kent:  Where  is  your  servant  Caius  ? 

Lear.  He's  a  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  you  that; 
He  '11  strike,  and  quickly  too  :  He  's  dead  and  rotten. 

Kent.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  I  am  the  very  man ; — 

Lear.  I  '11  see  that  straight. 

Kent.  That,  from  your  first  of  difference  and  decay, 
Have  foUow'd  your  sad  steps. 

Lear.  You  are  welcome  hither. 

Kent.    Nor  no  man   else;     all's    cheerless,   dark,  and 
deadly. — 
Your  eldest  daughters  have  fore-done  themselves. 
And  desperately  are  dead. 

Lear.  Ay,  so  I  think. 

Alb.  He  knows  not  what  he  says;  and  vain  it  is 
That  we  present  us  to  him. 

Edg.  Very  bootless. 


Enter  an  Officer. 

Off.  Edmund  is  dead,  my  lord 
Alb. 


I. 

That 's  but  a  trifle  here. — 


Treatise  on  Poetry — Twining's  Translation. 


470 


KING  LEAR. 


Re-enter  EnoAn  trith  Gi.ostfh,  1..11. 
Olost.  Where's  my  liege?     Conduct   me  to  bis  knees, 
to  hail 
His  second  birtli  of  empire  :  My  dear  Edgar 
His,  with  himself,  reve-il'd  the  king's  blest  restoration. 
Jjenr.  My  i>oor  dark  Gloster! 

Olost.  O  let  me  kiss  that  once  more  scepter'd  hand! 
Jjenr.  Hold,  thou  mistak'st  the  majesty ;  kneel  here; 
Cordelia  has  our  pow'r.  Cordelia  s  queen. 
Speak,  is  not  that  the  noljle,  suffring  Edgar? 

Glost.  My  pious  son.  more  dear  than  my  lost  eyes. 
Lear.  I  «  rong'd  him  too  ;  but  here 's  tlie  fair  amends. 
•         ••••« 

Edg.  Divine  Cordelia,  all  the  gods  can  witness 
How  much  thy  love  to  eniiiire  I  prefer. 
Thy  bright  example  shall  convince  the  world. 
Whatever  storms  of  fortune  are  decreed, 
Tliat  truth  and  virtue  shall  at  last  succeed. 

{Flourish  nf  Drums  and  Trumpets.y 


You  lords,  and  noble  friends,  know  our  intent. 
What  comfort  to  this  great  decay  may  come 
Shall  be  applied  :  For  us,  we  will  resign, 
nuring  the  life  of  this  old  majesty. 
To  him  our  absolute  power  : — You,  to  your  rights  : 

[To  Eno.^Rdnrf  Kknt. 
With  boot,  and  such  addition  as  your  honours 
Have  more  than  merited.— All  friends  shall  taste 
The  wages  of  their  virtue,  and  all  foes 
The  cup  of  their  deservings. — O,  see,  see  ! 

Lear.  And  my  poor  fool  is  hang'd  I     No,  no,  no  life : 
Why  should  a  dog,  a  horse,  a  rat,  h.ave  life. 
And  thou  no  breath  at  all  ?     Thou  'It  come  no  more. 
Never,  never,  never,  never,  never  1  — 
Pray  you  undo  this  button  :  Thank  you,  sir. — 
Do  you  see  this  ?     Look  on  lur, — look, — her  lips, — 
Look  there,  look  there  ! —  [He  dies. 

Edg.  He  faints  1 — My  lord,  my  lord, — 

Kent.  Break,  heart ;  I  prithee,  break  '. 

Edg.  Look  up,  my  lord. 

Kint.  Vex  not  his  ghost :  O,  let  him  pass  1  he  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer. 

•        ••••• 

[Exeunt  with  a  dead  march.'' 

And  why  do  we  ask  any  one  of  our  readers  to  compare  what  cannot  be  compared? — why  do  we 
put  one  of  the  most  divine  conceptions  of  poetrj'  side  by  side  with  the  meanest  interpretation  of  the 
most  imimaginative  feelings — equally  remote  from  the  verisimilitude  of  common  life,  as  from  the 
truth  of  ideal  beauty?  It  is,  as  we  have  said  before,  because  we  feel  unable  to  impart  to  others  our 
own  conceptions  of  the  marvellous  power  of  the  Lear  of  Shakspere,  without  employing  some  agency 
that  may  give  distinctness  to  ideas  which  must  be  otherwise  vague.  There  is  only  one  mode  in 
which  such  a  production  as  the  Lear  of  Shakspere  can  be  understood — by  study,  and  by  reveren- 
tial reflection.  The  age  which  produced  the  miserable  parody  of  Lear  that  till  within  a  few  years 
has  banished  the  Lear  of  Shakspere  from  the  stage,  was,  as  far  as  regards  the  knowledge  of  the 
liighest  efforts  of  intellect,  a  presumptuous,  artificial,  and  therefore  empty  age.  Tate  was  tolerated 
because  Shakspere  was  not  read.  We  have  arrived,  in  some  degree,  to  a  better  judgment,  because 
we  have  learnt  to  judge  more  humbly.  We  have  learnt  to  compare  the  highest  works  of  the  highest 
masters  of  poetry,  not  by  the  pedantic  principle  of  considering  a  modern  great  only  to  the  extent 
in  which  he  is  an  imitator  of  an  ancient,  but  by  endeavouring  to  comprehend  the  idea  in  which  the 
modern  and  the  ancient  each  worked.  The  Cordelia  of  Shakspere  and  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles 
have  many  points  of  similarity ;  but  they  each  belong  to  a  different  system  of  art.  It  is  for  the 
highest  minds  only  to  can-y  their  several  systems  to  an  approach  to  the  perfection  to  which 
Shakspere  and  Sophocles  have  carried  them.  It  was  for  the  feeblest  of  imitators,  in  a  feeble  age,  to 
produce  such  parodies  as  we  have  exhibited,  under  the  pretence  of  substituting  order  for  ii-re- 
gularity,  but  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  principle  of  order  which  was  too  skilfully  framed  to  be  visible 
to  the  grossness  of  their  taste. 


[Sophocles.] 


471 


LONDON: 

Printed  by  William  Clowes  and  Sons, 

Stamford  Street.